WO«.KSOF^ 


•  BEEi£Y  Mot 


.•'(D-'WEXi.* 


X3HIEBV  •^ 


-JOTTINQHAM 


•  BJIKMrw<3nM< 


/      HIN<3HAK  • 


fiLf  »/s^  ^ 


AT>BWKV- 

LTE2<IHAM 


k 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
,  in  2008  with  funding  from 
IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/amongenglishinnsOOtozi 


AMONG   ENGLISH   INNS 


UNIFORM    VOLUMES 

¥ 

Little     Pilgrimages     Among 

English    Inns 

By  Josephine  Tozier 

Little     Pilgrimages     Among 

French    Inns 

By   Charles   Gibson 

Little     Pilgrimages     Among 

Bavarian   Inns 

By  Frank  Roy  Fraprie 

Little      Pilgrimages    Among 

Old    New    England    Inns 
By  Mary  Caroline  Crawford 

The  Fair  Land  Tyrol 
By  W.  D.  McCrackan 

Among  Italian  Lakes 
By  W.  D.  McCrackan 

Each,  I  vol.,  library  i2mo,  cloth,  gilt 
top,  profusely  illustrated,  $2.00 

¥ 
L.  C.  Page  CBi,  Company 

New  England  Building 
Boston,  Mass. 


9 

^^^^^-^aP^ 

^ 

$ 

^ 
$ 
^ 
$ 
* 
* 
9 
$ 
^ 
$ 
$ 
$ 
$ 
$ 

LITTLE  PILGRIMAGES 

mm  €ndIi$D  Tnn$ 

THE    STORY    OF    A    PILGRIM- 
AGE    TO     CHARACTERISTIC 
SPOTS    OF    RURAL    ENGLAND 

$ 
9 

^ 
$ 
$ 
$ 
^ 
^ 
$ 
$ 
$ 
$ 
^ 
$ 
$ 

BY 

3O0cpbtnc  ZTosicr 

ILLUSTRATED 

BOSTON      ♦      »      »      *      » 

X.  C.  C>a9e  S  Company 

»      *      »      *      V  PUBLISHERS 

'<ti 

$$^V$$^$ 

$ 

Copyright,  igo4 

By  L.  C.  Page  &  Company 

(incorporated) 


All  rights  reserved 


Published  July,  rgo4 


Eighth  Impression 
October,  1907 


(Colonfal  ^SrfB0 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C    H.  Slmonds  &  Co. 

Boston.  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TTT^rr,^    ^^^  LIBRARY 
■UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA- 
SANTA    BARBARA 


TO 

THOSE   FRIENDS 

WHOSE   CONSTANT    ENCOURAOEMENT 

AND    SINCERE    INTEREST   IS    RESPONSIBLE   FOR 

THIS    LITTLE    RECORD,    MY 

BOOK   IS   AFFECTIONATELY    DEDICATED. 


PREFACE 

This  little  work  was  undertaken  at  the 
request,  and  for  the  use,  of  friends,  who  la- 
mented that  they  had  seen  nothing  of  rural 
England,  because  they  needed  a  guide  to  lead 
them  to  interesting  places  and  characteristic 
spots.  It  has  been  the  writer's  endeavour  to 
collect  here  facts  about  the  country  districts 
not  mentioned  in  the  ordinary  guide-book. 

This  volume  has  been  several  years  in  the 
making,  and  during  that  period  the  writer 
has  been  several  times  carefully  over  the  route 
she  has  selected  principally  for  the  combina- 
tion of  noted  villages  with  others  seldom 
visited  by  the  average  tourist,  and  distin- 
guished for  a  variety  of  interest,  historical 
and  literary,  and  for  diversity  of  prospect. 

The  tour  can  be  made  in  a  fortnight,  or 
extended  to  a  month  or  six  weeks.  It  is 
planned  for  those  who  wish  to  travel  in  simple 
style. 

Journeying  in  England  is  not  cheap  in  the 
generally  accepted  term.     The  tariff  at  the 


Preface 

country  inns  for  board  and  lodging  ranges 
from  twelve  shillings  ($3.00)  to  twenty-five 
($5.00)  shillings  a  day.  It  is  always  wise  to 
secure  rooms  in  advance,  a  very  simple  matter 
in  a  land  where  a  telegram  costs  but  a  few 
pence.  The  inns  are  small,  and  consequently 
the  accommodation  is  limited.  Those  who 
can  afford  a  little  extra  luxury  will  do  well 
to  engage  a  private  sitting-room.  This  grati- 
fication will  not  be  found  very  expensive,  and 
will  add  greatly  to  the  enjoyment  and  comfort 
of  the  party. 

The  food  at  an  English  inn  is  very  simple, 
and  its  want  of  variety  meets  with  criticism 
from  the  average  citizen  of  the  United  States, 
but  what  is  offered  the  guest  is  clean,  whole- 
some, and  the  best  of  its  kind.  The  mutton 
is  a  revelation,  and  the  flavour  of  the  vege- 
tables more  delicate  than  those  grown  in 
American  soil.  A  fixed  price  is  usually 
charged  for  the  meals,  varying  anywhere  be- 
tween two  shillings  and  sixpence  (about  sixty 
cents)  for  a  luncheon  to  a  dinner  at  six  shil- 
lings (a  dollar  and  a  half).  The  bread  sel- 
dom meets  with  approval,  and  the  coffee  is 
a  surprising  and  impossible  beverage.  Good 
coffee  is  very  expensive,  absurdly  so,  for  it 
costs  fifty  cents  a  pound,  and  is  only  obtainable 

viii 


Preface 

in  shops  devoted  to  its  sale  in  the  larger  towns. 
With  the  best  will  in  the  world,  the  landlady 
can  neither  buy  coffee  in  her  village,  nor  brew 
it  so  that  it  is  fit  to  drink.  Take  tea  if  pos- 
sible. 

The  manager  at  an  inn,  usually  a  woman, 
should  be  consulted  about  the  best  walks  and 
drives.  She  knows  the  advantages  of  the 
immediate  neighbourhood,  all  the  most  in- 
teresting sights,  and  the  best  vehicle  to  choose 
for  excursions.  She  is  always  ready  and 
pleased  to  give  information,  but  she  will  never 
offer  it  unless  asked.  Frame  your  questions 
carefully;  she  can  save  you  much  loss  of  time 
and  pleasure,  but  she  has  a  very  literal  sense 
of  comprehension. 

The  fees  given  the  inn  servants  should  be 
regulated  by  the  stay  and  the  amount  of  at- 
tention demanded  of  them.  A  shilling  for 
those  in  constant  attendance,  and  a  sixpence 
for  others  less  useful,  will  be  taken  with 
thanks.  A  charge  for  service  is  made  in  the 
bill  for  some  unknown  reason,  but  the  servants 
always  expect  a  fee,  and  no  English  guest  ever 
fails  to  bestow  it. 

There  is  a  system  at  railway  stations  by 
which,  when  the  price  of  sixpence  is  paid  on 
each  piece,  luggage  can  be  delivered  at  your 


Preface 

abiding-place,  or  sent  forward  to  the  cloak- 
room at  the  station  which  is  your  ultimate 
destination.  This  is  called  "  Luggage  in  Ad- 
vance," but  unfortunately  the  promise  of  the 
title  is  not  invariably  fulfilled. 

It  is  safer  to  watch  your  luggage.  See  it 
put  in  the  van  when  you  start,  note  that  par- 
ticular van,  and  get  into  the  carriage  to  which 
it  is  attached.  This  will  facilitate  matters. 
You  will  probably  change  cars  on  your  jour- 
ney. When  that  happens,  the  traveller  must 
snatch  a  porter  in  all  haste,  find  the  luggage 
for  him,  and  see  it  transferred.  The  fact  that 
the  trunks  are  labelled  through  to  the  end  of 
the  journey  will  not  prevent  them  from  being 
left  on  the  platform  of  a  junction,  to  follow 
at  the  sweet  leisure  of  the  officials,  or  to  repose 
in  that  overcrowded  institution.  The  Lost 
Property  Office,  until  rescued  by  tracers  of 
one  kind  or  another.  A  porter  expects  a  fee 
of  from  twopence  to  sixpence  for  carrying 
your  trunk  to  a  van.  In  this  case  the  size  of 
the  trunk  should  determine  the  amount  be- 
stowed. More  than  sixpence  will  make  him 
stare,  and  mark  you  for  a  stranger  to  British 
travelling  methods. 

Choose  to  buy  third-class  tickets,  except 
when  travelling  at  night  or  on  a  holiday.    You 


Preface 

will  find  yourself  perfectly  comfortable,  and 
in  company  more  than  respectable  socially. 
First-class  fare  is  nearly  double  in  price,  and 
on  some  of  the  English  railways  there  are  no 
second-class  carriages.  It  looks  knowing  to 
use  third-class. 

The  writer  wishes  to  assure  that  she  has 
not  drawn  on  her  imagination  for  a  single 
one  of  the  incidents  set  down  in  this  book,  al- 
though some  of  the  minor  occurrences  have 
changed  their  locality  at  her  will;  the  experi- 
ences are  all  facts,  and  happened  as  she  relates 
them.  She  trusts,  in  presenting  this  book  to 
future  tourists  in  Rural  England,  that  what- 
ever lack  of  material  comfort  they  may  ex- 
perience by  following  in  her  footsteps  will 
be  more  than  overlooked  and  recompensed 
by  the  diversity  of  the  scenery,  the  charm  of 
this  garden-land,  the  quaintness  of  the  ham- 
lets, and  the  universal  civility  of  the  inhab- 
itants. 

The  Author. 


n 


CONTENTS 


CMAPTBR 
I. 
II. 


ni. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X, 


The  Queen's  Arms,   Selborne,   Hampshire  . 
At     "The     Three     Crowns,"     Chagford, 

Devon  ..... 
Clovelly  .... 

Clerk's  Hill  Farm,   Evesham     . 
Peacock  Inn,   Rowsley 
Hardwick  Inn 

The  Dukeries   .... 
The   Peacock  and   Royal,   Boston 
The  Maid's  Head,   Norwich 
Angel  Inn,   Acle  Bridge  . 


PAGB 
I 

32 

66 
84 

131 

149 
163 

193 
210 
236 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


The  Three  Crowns,  Chagford  (See  pag^e  j/)  Frontispiece 
The  Queen's  Arms.  —  On  Gracious  Street.  —  The 

Entrance  to  the  Village         ....  8 

The  Main  Street  of  Selborne  .  .  .  .  io 
The  Wakes,  from  the  Hanger  .  .  .  .13 
Jane  Austen  House,  Chawton  .  .  .  .16 
The  Carrier's   Cart, —  Selborne   Street.  —  The 

Squire's  Bulldog,  •♦  Peter." — "Our  Piggies"  25 
Tombstone  of  Private  Fletcher.  —  General  View 

of  Winchester.  —  Winchester  Cathedral     .  30 

The  Three  Crowns,  Chagford        ....  38 

A  Street  in  Chagford 43 

Leigh  Bridge,  The  Teign,  Chagford      ...  46 

Fingle  Gorge 54 

The  Stepping  -  Stones 56 

A  Clovelly  Street.  —  Clovelly  Fishermen  .  68 
Looking   down    Clovelly   Street.  —  Looking   up 

Clovelly  Street          71 

A  Heart  of  Oak.  —  Clovelly  Foliage  .  .  80 
Clerk's  Hill   Farmhouse.  —  The  Bell  Tower. — 

Boat  Lane g6 

Cropthorne  Cottages.  —  Interior  of  Cropthorne 

Church 100 

Home   of  Penelope  Washington. —  Last  Resting- 

Place  of  Penelope  Washington      .        .        .  106 

The  Bell  Inn,  Tewkesbury 124 

On  the  Way  to  Rowsley 133 


List  of  Illustrations 


PAGE 


The  Peacock  Inn,  Rowsley.  —  Rowsley  Street.     136 

Hardwick  Inn 152 

BoLsovER  Castle 164 

A  Glade  in  Sherwood  Forest  .  .  .  •  171 
St.  Botolph's  Church,  Boston  ....  196 
Boston  Market  -  Place. —  Sheep  Market  in  the 

Wide  Bar  Gate 204 

The  River  Wytham  and  St.  Botolph's  Church. 
—  Old  Boston  Warehouses.  —  The  Maud 
Foster  Drain       .......     206 

The  Maid's  Head,  Norwich 210 

Blickling  Hall  Garden 220 

The  Ruins  of  Wymondham  Priory.  —  The  Green 
Dragon  Inn,  Wymondham.  —  A  Thetford 
Window.  —  The  Inn  at  Blickling   .        .        .     234 

On  the  Norfolk  Broads 236 

On  the  Broads,  near  Acle. — A  View  near  Nor- 
wich        240 

An  Inn  Doorway.  —  Acle  Bridge.  —  In  Acle  Vil- 
lage. —  A  Boat  Dyke 246 


Among  English  Inns 

CHAPTER   I 

THE  queen's  arms 
Selborne,  Hampshire 


iS5t» 


HE  steamer  that  goes 
between  Havre  and 
^^^^  Southampton  was 
just  rounding  the  Isle  of 
Wight,  when  three  de- 
jected -  looking  young  women 
stepped  out  of  a  deck  cabin 
into  the  clear  air  of  the  July 
morning.  They  had  survived  and  endured 
with  bitter  complaints  one  of  those  noted  pas- 
sages of  which  the  English  Channel  has  the 
monopoly. 

The  waves  had  dashed  furiously  all  night 


Among  English  Inns 

long  against  the  small  ship;  it  had  groaned 
and  shivered  in  response,  and  these  three 
women  had  groaned  and  shivered  in  concert 
w^ith  each  creaking  timber. 

They  had  denied  themselves  the  pleasure  of 
longer  w^anderings  in  lovely  France  for  the 
sake  of  a  short  tour  through  rural  England. 
My  persuasive  tongue  it  w^as  which  had 
brought  them  to  this  decision  and  over  the 
rough  waters  of  the  Channel.  I  had  therefore 
not  only  suffered  with  seasickness  myself 
through  all  the  wild  night,  but  had  joined  to 
physical  pain  the  mental  agonies  of  responsi- 
bility and  remorse.  The  bright  sun  now 
above,  smooth  water  around,  and  green  land 
within  sight  dispelled  regrets  and  reproaches; 
we  met  with  smiling  faces. 

"  Here  comes  Polly,  as  fresh  and  rosy  as 
the  morn,"  exclaimed  the  chief  Invalid,  as 
the  youngest  of  our  quartette  appeared  smil- 
ing at  the  gangway  door.  "  She  must  get  us 
some  coffee." 

"  She  can't,"  answered  the  blooming  Polly. 
"  There  is  neither  tea  nor  coffee  fit  to  drink 
on  board.  I  have  tried  both.  A  jovial  old 
Englishman  suggested  beer,  but  as  I  did  not 
wish  to  spoil  my  record  as  a  good  sailor,  I 
declined  that  morning  beverage." 

2 


The  Queen's  Arms 

"  Here  are  some  tablets  of  chocolate,  one 
for  each." 

I  had  forgotten  in  my  despairing  mood  that 
I  had  wisely  provided  food  for  this  very 
emergency. 

"  Must  all  these  other  poor  seasick  creatures 
travel  to  London  without  food?"  sighed  the 
sympathetic  Invalid.  The  Southampton  docks 
being  now  within  sight,  we  lost  interest  in 
everything  but  the  business  of  landing.  We 
seized  our  bags  and  left  the  boat  as  rapidly 
as  possible. 

Pennies  liberally  distributed,  and  the  simple 
formalities  of  the  English  Customs  passed,  we 
crossed  the  dockyard  and  turned  down  the 
street  toward  the  Great  South  Western  Hotel, 
and  breakfast!  Our  normal  appetites  had  re- 
turned with  increased  vigour  after  we  felt 
firm  ground  beneath  our  feet.  We  were  fol- 
lowed on  our  way  by  our  small  luggage,  piled 
upon  a  hand-cart  and  drawn  by  a  red-headed 
porter. 

Breakfast  soon  waited  our  pleasure  in  the 
sunny  dining-room.  Toasted  muffins,  hot 
coffee,  marmalade,  and  all  the  various  acces- 
sories of  that  most  comfortable  English  meal, 
while  the  proprietor  of  the  hand-cart  went 
away  murmuring  because,  having  demanded 

3 


Among  Eiiglish  Inns 

three  shillings,  Polly  gave  him  but  half  that 
amount,  —  quite  enough  for  his  service.  Such 
encounters  are  sport  for  Polly.  We  have  con- 
stituted her  Treasurer  and  Financier-in-chief 
of  the  party.  She  proved  so  able  in  France, 
that  we  have  voted  unanimously  to  continue 
her  in  office  on  our  present  journey.  To  speak 
truly,  she  alone  of  the  entire  quartette  does 
not  consider  arithmetic  simply  a  matter  of 
fingers. 

The  cheery  breakfast  so  completely  restored 
the  entire  party  that  the  Invalid  and  the 
Matron  began  to  make  anxious  inquiry  about 
our  immediate  destination.  "  Just  take  us 
where  you  like,  and  surprise  us,"  both  the 
Invalid  and  the  Matron  had  entreated  when 
they  constituted  me  guide  of  the  party,  and 
now  two  cups  of  coffee  had  excited  them  to 
indiscreet  curiosity. 

The  Matron,  be  it  told  right  here,  is  not  so 
venerable  as  the  name  would  imply.  She  is 
young,  but  owes  her  title  to  the  possession  of 
a  husband.  He  is  concealed  somewhere  in  the 
mazes  of  the  United  States,  engaged  in  the 
most  fascinating  sport  of  money-making,  while 
she  assumes,  as  a  consequence  of  his  existence, 
a  dignity  we  spinsters  do  not  presume  to  imi- 
tate.    She  also  has  an  excuse  to  retire  and 

■A 


The  Queeiis  Arms 

write  letters  to  the  absent  gentleman  whenever 
she  feels  bored  in  our  society. 

"  You  promised  to  ask  no  questions,"  says 
my  lieutenant,  the  Treasurer.  "  The  tickets 
are  in  my  pocket,  the  luggage  is  labelled,  and 
the  train  will  be  ready  in  half  an  hour  to 
bear  us  away  to  Alton,  where  we  are  to  take 
carriage  for  Selborne." 

''Gilbert  White's  Selborne?"  inquires  the 
Invalid,  in  a  whisper.  Before  any  one  both- 
ers to  answer,  we  are  rolling  away  from 
Southampton,  past  Winchester,  to  Alton.  The 
Treasurer  puts  us  into  third-class  carriages; 
she  insists  that  two  cents  a  mile  is  quite  all 
we  can  pay.  The  Invalid  and  the  Matron 
felt  at  first  inclined  to  rebel  at  the  economy, 
but  finding  third-class  so  much  better  than 
they  expected,  they  spend  half  the  time  of  the 
journey  talking  about  it. 

One  of  the  eccentricities  of  the  British  rail- 
way system  is  the  aversion  the  officials  dis- 
play to  calling  out  the  name  of  a  station.  At 
the  extreme  end  of  each  small  platform,  hid- 
den among  brilliant  invitations  to  "  Use 
Pear's  Soap  "  or  "  Take  Beecham's  Pills,"  the 
name  of  the  town  is  shyly  concealed  by  a 
modest  gray  sign.     My  party  almost  refused 


Among  English  Inns 

to  follow  me,  when  I  began  to  pull  down  the 
bags  at  Alton. 

*'  How  do  you  know  where  we  are?  "  asked 
the  Matron. 

There  was  no  time  to  explain,  so  I  bundled 
her  on  to  the  platform  and  quieted  her  fears 
by  introducing  her  to  the  host  of  the  Queen's 
Arms,  who  sat  on  the  box  of  his  wagonette 
waiting  to  drive  us  to  Selborne.  We  had  sent 
him  a  telegram  from  Winchester. 

The  town  of  Alton  saves  itself  from  hope- 
less dulness  only  by  the  pretty  curve  its  High 
Street  describes.  I  have  read  somewhere  that 
Mrs.  Gaskell  was  building  a  house  in  Alton 
when  she  died,  yet  the  place  itself  possesses 
no  visible  attractions.  A  barrel-bodied,  pie- 
bald horse,  mounted  on  a  rolling  platform 
by  four  sticks  of  legs,  and  hanging  in  a  most 
perilous  and  unnatural  position  outside  a 
quaint  shop,  excited  the  Matron  so  profoundly 
that  she  vowed  that  Alton  was  a  veritable 
picture-book  town,  but  her  imagination  is 
broad. 

Alton,  situated  in  the  centre  of  a  hop-grow- 
ing region,  is  a  brewing  town.  The  solemn 
brick  Georgian  houses  look  comfortable  and 
ugly.  Public  houses,  mere  drinking-places, 
supply  all  the  picturesque  element  by  their 

6 


The  Queen's  Arms 

names:  the  French  Horn,  the  Hop  Poles, 
the  Jug  of  Ale,  and  the  pretentious  Star, 
"  patronized  by  Royalty." 

The  green  once  passed,  and  the  homely  little 
town  behind  us,  we  become  aware  of  the 
charm  which  induced  Mrs.  Gaskell  to  choose 
Alton  as  a  dwelling-place.  The  road  branches 
where  we  leave  the  last  houses ;  one  way  leads 
us  over  low  hills  to  our  destination,  the  other 
is  a  shaded  road  to  Chawton,  where  lived  Jane 
Austen's  brother,  who  inherited  the  manor- 
house,  and  the  cottage  in  which  that  gentle 
authoress  spent  the  last  years  of  her  life. 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away  goes  the  road 
to  Selborne,  past  fields  where  festoons  of  the 
hop-vines  make  bowers  of  green.  The  high- 
way winds  up  and  down  for  five  miles  through 
copse  and  farm  lands.  We  see  noisy  rooks 
gleaning  the  fields,  and  men  ploughing  with 
oxen;  these  last  a  rare  sight  in  England. 
From  the  high  points  of  the  road  we  look 
down  into  the  sunny  valley  on  the  little  village 
of  Chawton,  and  see  the  noonday  smoke  ris- 
ing from  the  cottages.  At  the  top  of  the  last 
steep  hill  on  our  drive,  the  long,  low  ridge 
before  us  is  pointed  out  to  us  as  the  "  Hanger," 
and  nestling  at  its  base  lies  the  village  of  Sel- 
borne. 

7 


Among  English  Inns 

None  of  the  party,  excepting  the  writer,  has 
ever  before  seen  an  English  village  inn.  They 
are  at  first  inclined  to  be  disappointed  be- 
cause "  The  Queen's  Arms  "  does  not  more 
exactly  resemble  the  comic  opera  counterfeit. 
When  the  bedrooms  are  assigned  us,  the 
Matron  discovers  we  fill  the  house. 

"A  whole  inn  to  ourselves!  Could  any- 
thing be  more  perfect!" 

We  reach  our  bedrooms  and  our  long  nar- 
row sitting-room  by  an  antiquated  staircase, 
shut  off  with  a  door  at  the  bottom  from  the 
neat  old-fashioned  bar.  At  the  "  Queen's 
Arms  "  the  bar,  true  to  its  name,  is  a  broad 
shelf  of  wood,  lifted  or  put  down  at  the  will 
of  the  innkeeper's  pretty  daughter,  when  she 
serves  cider,  or  more  potent  drinks,  to  thirsty 
customers.  To  be  invited  into  the  family  par- 
lour, behind  the  bar,  is  the  privilege  of  only 
the  chosen  few. 

Our  private  stairway  is  decorated  with 
stufifed  birds  and  porcelain  tableware,  all 
brilliant  in  colour  but  more  or  less  dilapidated 
by  age  and  use.  Our  sitting-room  possesses 
as  an  object  of  luxury  a  grand  piano,  dating 
from  the  very  earliest  days  of  grand  pianos. 
Like  many  ancient  singers,  both  its  voice  and 
most  of  its  teeth  are  gone,  but,  unlike  a  prima 


The  Qiieciis  Anns 

donna,  its  exterior  has  grown  more  beautiful 
with  each  passing  decade.  The  old  French 
mahogany  case  is  a  joy  to  the  artistic  eye.  The 
mantel  ornaments  are  frankly  from  Birming- 
ham, and  bear  the  stamp  of  the  peddler's 
pack;  all  ugly  and  useless.  The  pictures  evi- 
dently came  from  the  same  source  many  years 
ago.  A  hideous  coloured  landscape  and  an 
impossible  Joan  of  Arc  disfigure  the  quaint, 
venerable  walls,  but  the  lattice  window  opens 
wide  on  a  scene  so  lovely  that  the  interior  of 
the  room  is  forgotten. 

Behind  the  diamond  panes  a  gay  flower- 
garden  stretches  away  to  broad  fields,  and  past 
these  are  the  dark  beech-trees  in  the  long,  nar- 
row valley  of  the  Lythe. 

Our  travel-stimulated  appetites  do  full  jus- 
tice when  lunch  appears.  It  consists  of  chops, 
new  potatoes,  and  gooseberry  tart,  an  excellent 
specimen  of  many  of  the  same  kind  which 
we  are  destined  to  consume  before  our  trip 
comes  to  an  end. 

"  The  sweet  simplicity  of  English  cooking 
probably  had  its  origin  when  salt  was  highly 
taxed,"  observed  Polly  with  solemnity,  as  she 
emptied  the  salt-cellar  on  her  plate. 

"  We  did  not  come  here  to  criticize  the 
food,"  interposed  the  Invalid,  sternly.    "  Still, 

9 


Among  English  Inns 

salt  is  a  healthy  condiment;  you  might  ring 
for  some  more."  Polly  has  not  left  a  single 
grain  in  the  diminutive  glass  dish. 

The  village  of  Selborne  has  but  a  single 
street  which  is  honoured  with  a  name,  Gra- 
cious Street.  It  is  now  little  better  than 
a  deep,  shady  lane,  which  skirts  the  park  of 
that  comfortable  small  estate  where,  more 
than  a  century  ago,  lived  Gilbert  White,  the 
naturalist,  the  genial  writer  of  those  graceful 
letters  which  delight  the  reader  of  "  The  Nat- 
ural History  of  Selborne."  In  the  time  of 
Gilbert  White,  Gracious  Street  was  the  road 
through  Chawton  to  Alton.  It  was  then  even 
more  of  a  lane  than  it  is  to-day,  and  Selborne 
a  nearly  inaccessible  hamlet. 

The  main  village  street,  on  which  stands 
our  inn,  boasts  no  name,  yet  it  is  lovely  to 
look  upon.  It  is  lined  with  thatched-roofed 
cottages  in  raised  gardens  that  blush  with 
roses  and  bright-faced  flowers.  Vines  climb 
over  the  white-curtained  casements,  in  which 
stand  pots  of  gay  blooming  plants,  and  each 
cottage  door  is  closed  by  a  bar.  This  is  done 
to  keep  the  little  toddlers  we  see  peeping  out 
curiously  from  tumbling  among  the  carefully 
tended  garden-beds.  A  bird-cage  well  out  of 
the  reach  of  the  family  cat  hangs  on  nearly 

lO 


The  Queens  Arms 

every  cottage  wall,  with  finches  chirruping 
gaily  in  their  wicker  prisons. 

The  ancient  church  dominates  the  entire 
village.  The  square,  squat  Norman  tower  is 
shaded  by  a  huge  yew-tree,  reported  to  be  a 
thousand  years  old;  its  dense  foliage  and 
wide-spreading  branches  almost  hide  the  body 
of  the  church.  Near  the  church  is  the  vicar- 
age. The  old  house  in  which  Gilbert  White 
was  born  has  been  replaced  by  a  modern 
dwelling,  but  the  lovely  garden  where  he  took 
his  first  steps  among  the  flowers  still  thrives 
and  flourishes  under  the  watchful  care  of  the 
present  vicar,  Mr.  Kaye.  The  yew-hedge, 
planted  over  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago, 
is  now  a  superb  wall  of  green,  and  beyond  its 
impenetrable  foliage  lies  the  churchyard.  In 
a  nook  made  by  an  angle  in  the  transept  wall 
is  the  grave  of  Gilbert  White.  A  worn  stone, 
in  which  are  roughly  carved  the  letters  "  G. 
W.,"  marks  his  last  resting-place.  He  was 
born  in  1720;  his  grandfather  was  vicar  of 
Selborne  at  that  time.  Here  in  the  vicarage 
he  was  at  home  until  he  entered  Oriel  College 
at  Oxford,  and  here  he  returned  before  taking 
up  his  residence  at  The  Wakes  and  assuming 
the  duties  of  curate  at  Faringdon.  While  the 
colonies  in  America  were  fighting  the  mother 

II 


Among  English  Inns 

country,  and  France  her  royalty,  Gilbert 
White,  in  a  village  nearly  cut  off  from  the 
world  by  bad  roads,  was  writing  of  the  insect 
world  to  his  friends.  In  1776,  he  is  more 
interested  in  a  cat  who  has  mothered  a  leveret 
than  in  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  In 
1793,  when  royal  heads  are  falling  across  the 
Channel,  he  writes  chiefly  of  sand-martins  and 
their  young. 

Since  the  death  of  Gilbert  White  there  have 
been  some  additions  to  his  home  by  later 
owners,  but  the  new  building  has  all  been 
done  in  the  spirit  of  the  original  dwelling. 
The  comfortable  modern  drawing-room  and 
the  pleasant  dining-room  are  in  harmony  with 
the  old  study  used  by  the  naturalist,  now  the 
favourite  den  of  the  present  owner.  Out  of  the 
drawing-room  a  passage  through  a  well-filled 
conservatory  leads  to  the  lawns  and  beautiful 
gardens,  but  little  changed  since  the  days  of 
the  naturalist.  The  trees  he  planted  are  care- 
fully preserved,  and  the  sun-dial  on  which  he 
noted  the  passage  of  the  hours  still  stands  on 
the  lawn. 

Looking  over  the  churchyard  stile,  on  the 
side  of  the  Plestor  (a  playground  for  the  vil- 
lage children),  we  see  The  Wakes  on  the 
other  side  of  the  sloping  space.     The  long, 

12 


The  Queens  Arms 

rambling  brick  house,  placed  close  upon  the 
street,  is  shrouded  to  the  very  gables  by  trees 
and  shrubs,  which  hide  the  windows  from  in- 
quisitive eyes. 

The  early  evening  hours,  in  a  country  where 
the  twilight  lasts  until  nearly  ten  o'clock,  are 
the  most  delightful  times  for  walking.  We 
climbed  the  Hanger  after  tea,  with  the  com- 
fortable feeling  that  dinner  could  wait  until 
we  came  back.  There  is  a  steep  path,  called 
the  Zigzag,  said  to  have  been  cut  by  Gilbert 
White,  but  we  chose  to  gain  the  hilltop  by 
a  long,  sloping  ascent  winding  up  with  an 
easy  sweep  under  the  beeches.  At  the  top, 
from  a  bench  placed  there  for  the  comfort  of 
wayfarers,  through  a  clearing  in  the  wood, 
we  looked  down  upon  the  sunny  garden  of 
The  Wakes,  and  its  windows  hung  with  ivy. 
Behind  the  house  the  church  lifted  its  tower, 
and  still  farther  on  the  dusky  trees  of  the  Lythe 
twisted  away  like  a  monster  green  serpent  to 
the  misty  hills  of  the  horizon.  On  the  right, 
smoke  rising  above  the  cottage  roofs,  buried 
in  foliage,  told  of  the  preparations  for  the 
evening  meal,  while  on  the  left,  down  the  yel- 
low road  which  winds  along  the  steep  hill 
toward  Alton,  came  the  ploughmen  and  their 
horses. 

13 


Among  English  Inns 

A  sheep-common  stretches  all  over  the  top 
of  the  Hanger,  and  a  misleading  path  among 
the  bracken  and  scrub-oaks  goes  to  a  most 
interesting  little  hamlet,  Newton  Valance. 

"  Who  wants  to  see  a  haunted  house?  " 

"  Everybody." 

I  march  boldly  ahead,  with  my  friends 
straggling  behind.  Fortunately  for  my  repu- 
tation, the  many  lovely  views  they  get  of  the 
valley  absorb  their  attention  and  save  me  from 
utter  disgrace.  When  I  finally  hail  with  glee 
an  avenue  of  gloomy  pine-trees,  I  have,  un- 
known to  my  comrades,  lost  and  found  the 
way  not  less  than  five  times. 

The  haunted  house  —  so  called  —  is  built 
almost  within  the  Newton  Valance  church- 
yard. The  gloomy  entrance,  the  neglected 
park,  the  empty  glass-house,  the  forsaken 
aviary,  and  the  huge  dilapidated  stone  barns 
tell  a  dreary  tale.  The  falling  mansion  is 
only  to  be  described  as  a  solid  Elizabethan 
manor-house  with  a  Greek  villa  tacked  on  to 
the  front.  Any  more  incongruous  mixture  of 
architecture  it  would  be  diflicult  to  imagine. 
The  country  folk  have  invented  weird  tales 
on  the  strength  of  some  bones  found  inside 
one  of  the  plaster  statues  which  embellish  the 
Greek  porch. 


The  Queens  Arms 

"  They  do  say  all  sorts  of  things,  but  we 
ain't  never  seen  no  ghosts,"  the  caretaker  tells 
us.  She  lives  in  the  only  habitable  part  of  the 
decayed  mansion,  which  is  the  great  kitchen, 
with  a  large  family  of  children.  Their  laugh- 
ter and  games  perhaps  frighten  ghosts  away. 

The  original  house  was  evidently  built  in 
Elizabethan  days  for  lavish  hospitality,  but 
that  was  before  the  owner  with  shabby  Greek 
taste  appeared.  Inside,  in  the  ancient  part, 
the  rafters  are  rotting,  while  in  the  modern 
addition  the  gay  French-mirrored  doors  are 
cracked  and  the  walls  covered  with  mould. 

A  long  avenue,  grass-grown  and  disused, 
goes  straight  down  the  other  side  of  the 
Hanger,  past  two  fallen  lodges,  and  then 
through  rusty  gates,  hanging  each  by  a  single 
hinge,  out  on  to  a  pretty,  cheerful  road,  along 
which  Gilbert  White  lingered  often  to  con- 
template the  wonders  of  his  beloved  mistress. 
Dame  Nature.  He  was  curate  of  the  little  vil- 
lage of  Faringdon,  through  which  this  high- 
way passes  before  it  skirts  the  borders  of 
Chawton  Park. 

The  Chawton  of  to-day  is  much  as  it  was 
in  the  time  of  the  authoress  who  there  wrote 
"  Pride  and  Prejudice,"  as  well  as  all  her  later 
novels.    The  square  brick  house  in  which  Jane 

15 


Among  Rnglish  Inns 

Austen  lived  when  her  brother  became  lord 
of  the  manor  is  opposite  the  tiny  inn,  on  a 
picturesque  road  of  thatched  cottages  hiding 
behind  verdure-grown  garden  walls,  over 
which  nod  masses  of  tall,  yellow  flowers. 

We  were  lucky  in  coming  to  Selborne  in 
July.  Then  occur  the  most  festive  days  of  the 
summer,  the  flower-show,  and  the  county 
policeman's  dinner. 

The  flower-show  is  held  in  a  large  tent 
pitched  on  the  lawn  in  the  park  of  The  Wakes. 
The  many  gardens  which  the  villagers  have 
carefully  tended  all  through  the  year  then  give 
up  their  choicest  specimens  for  this  exhibition. 
The  schoolchildren  spend  hours  gathering 
wild  flowers  to  compete  for  the  prize  given 
that  little  one  who  shall  show  the  greatest 
variety  arranged  with  the  best  taste. 

The  love  which  the  English  rustic  has  for 
flowers,  and  the  skill  shown  in  growing  and 
arranging  them,  comes  out  fully  at  a  village 
flower-show.  The  Invalid  and  the  Matron 
were  most  enthusiastic  when  they  saw  the  suc- 
cessful efiforts  of  the  children  and  the  out- 
come of  the  gardens.  They  had  formed  their 
judgment  of  British  taste  by  the  dress  of  the 
women. 

The  prizes  were  plentiful  and  substantial. 
i6 


The  Queens  Arms 

They  were  distributed  by  the  charming  wife 
of  the  squire.  The  villagers  looked  pleased 
and  happy,  but  the  only  noise  and  applause 
was  furnished  by  the  squire's  pet  bulldog, 
who  accompanied  the  announcement  of  each 
prize-winner  with  loud  barks  and  wild  leaps 
of  joy,  to  the  intense  disgust  of  the  vicar's 
poodle,  who  sat  by  w^ith  the  dignified  bearing 
his  station  in  life  required. 

There  was  music  and  dancing  in  the  park, 
while  just  beyond  the  gates  a  shabby  caravan 
from  Petersfield,  a  near-by  town,  waited  with 
its  swings,  carrousel,  and  shooting-gallery  to 
swallow  up  the  prize-money. 

The  squire's  hospitality  is  responsible  for 
the  policeman's  dinner.  It  is  his  entertain- 
ment. The  constabulary  is  a  valuable  and  im- 
posing institution  in  rural  England.  During 
the  hop-picking  season  Selborne  and  the 
country  for  miles  around  is  overrun  by  rough 
men  and  women  from  the  dregs  of  the  London 
streets,  who  come  to  work  in  the  hop-fields. 

That  muscular  member  of  the  county  police 
who  keeps  the  peace  in  Selborne  has  proved 
himself  such  a  terror  to  the  evil-doers  among 
these  hordes  that  the  squire,  with  a  desire  to 
show  his  appreciation  for  the  protection 
afforded  his  village  by  this  athletic  police- 

17 


Amoiig  English  Inns 

man,  once  a  year  gives  a  dinner  in  his  name 
to  all  the  members  of  the  constabulary  for 
miles  around.  For  many  days  before  the  great 
event  the  innkeeper's  wife  and  daughter  are 
busy  all  day  roasting  joints,  baking  cakes,  and 
preparing  dainties.  Our  meals  are  irregular; 
the  Invalid  murmurs;  the  Matron  makes  ex- 
cuses ;  but  we  only  get  fed  after  a  fashion  until 
the  great  day  arrives. 

As  early  on  that  morning  as  is  consistent 
with  British  habits  (between  ten  and  eleven) 
the  guests  drive  into  the  yard  of  the  inn.  They 
bring  their  wives  and  children,  their  sisters 
and  mothers.  They  come  in  busses,  they  come 
in  wagonettes,  in  dog-carts,  and  every  descrip- 
tion of  vehicle  drawn  by  horses.  In  the  coffee- 
room,  in  the  parlour  behind  the  bar,  and  in 
the  tap-room  tables  are  set.  We  were  invited 
to  go  down  and  admire  the  flowers  and  the 
wealth  of  good  things  in  which  the  British 
palate  delights. 

The  County  Constabulary  is  a  very  impor- 
tant institution,  but  the  annual  dinner  of  the 
County  Constabulary  is  a  much  more  impor- 
tant institution.  We  were  greatly  disap- 
pointed, being  females  all,  and  Americans 
as  well,  to  find  that  the  invited  guests  did  not 
come  in  uniform.     We  finally  decided  that 

i8 


The  Queens  Arms 

it  would  never  do  to  damage  the  immaculate 
smartness  of  the  village  policeman's  official 
attire  by  risking  its  glory  at  games  on  the 
green.  The  men  came  therefore  in  those  spick 
and  span  garments  in  which  every  English- 
man manages  to  array  himself  on  Sunday. 
The  women  were  as  dowdy  as  the  men  were 
trim,  the  children  were  cherubs,  like  all  Eng- 
lish children,  and  the  horses  groomed  until 
they  shone  like  satin. 

The  visitors  drove  into  the  yard  with  either 
a  flourish  of  whips  or  of  horns,  as  the  style 
of  vehicle  demanded.  The  women  and  chil- 
dren were  helped  out,  and  went  their  various 
ways,  to  visit  in  the  cottages,  or  to  admire  the 
gardens.  Before  the  men  even  glanced  into 
that  most  inviting  tap-room,  the  fat,  sleek 
horses  were  taken  from  the  shafts,  led  away  to 
shelter  and  comfort,  and  the  carriage  cushions 
turned  over  to  save  them  from  the  sun.  When 
these  necessary  duties  had  been  performed  ac- 
cording to  the  tidy  ways  of  this  most  tidy  peo- 
ple, mild  sounds  of  mirth  began  to  issue  from 
the  tap-room.  It  would  not  be  consistent  for 
the  chosen  representatives  of  the  sternness  of 
the  British  code  to  be  other  than  mild. 

The  landlady  and  her  daughters  were  busy 
showing  the  culinary  triumphs  in  the  cofifee- 

19 


Among  English  Inns 

room  to  the  women  visitors.  These  gazed  and 
admired,  but  dared  not  taste.  The  feast  was 
not  for  them  until  their  lords  had  eaten  their 
fill.  The  inn  is  too  small  to  accommodate  all; 
the  occasion  being  a  policeman's  dinner,  the 
policemen  ate  first.  After  the  women  had 
looked  and  approved,  the  men  marched 
slowly  in  to  the  banquet;  we  watched  them 
from  the  window  above.  A  period  of  perfect 
silence  told  loudly  of  the  merits  of  the  viands, 
but  after  a  time  the  guests  waxed  merry. 
When  the  Squire  came  in  to  the  dinner,  he 
was  greeted  with  song:  "  For  He's  a  Jolly 
Good  Fellow,"  which,  nobody  venturing  to 
deny,  was  repeated  countless  times. 

After  the  meal  was  over  came  games  at 
The  Wakes.  We  had  fortunately  received 
an  invitation  to  be  present.  We  sat  on  the 
lawn  under  the  glorious  old  trees  and  watched 
the  game  of  cricket,  which  we  did  not  under- 
stand in  the  least;  a  tug  of  war  pleased  us 
better,  —  it  came  quite  within  our  limits  of 
comprehension. 

The  host  of  the  occasion  wandered  about 
talking  with  old  and  young.  We  were  ex- 
ceedingly interested  in  the  relations  between 
the  classes  here  displayed.  It  was  a  novel 
sight  for  republicans,  —  no  equality,  no  con- 

20 


The  Queens  Arms 

descension,  yet  not  the  slightest  sign  of  ser- 
vility/ 

The  policeman's  feast  is  given  before  the 
stern  duties  of  the  late  August  hop-picking 
season  demand  their  entire  attention.  When 
that  strenuous  time  is  past,  Selborne  sinks  back 
into  reposeful  quiet.  There  are  no  market- 
days  to  disturb  the  peace,  nor  any  unruly  vis- 
itors. After  the  morning  eruption  of  children 
on  their  way  to  school,  the  village  street  is 
given  up  to  an  old  labourer  with  a  full  sack 
on  his  bent  back,  varied  by  an  occasional  car- 
riage with  showy  livery,  driven  rapidly,  and 
bearing  ladies  on  their  way  to  call  upon  neigh- 
bours probably  five  miles  distant.  To  vary 
the  scene  comes  the  carrier's  cart  from  Alton. 
It  draws  up  in  the  inn  yard,  and,  while  the 
carrier  lounges  in  the  tap-room,  his  panting 
dog  rests  in  the  shadow  under  the  cart. 

"  I  have  been  to  The  Wakes  and  borrowed 
a  male  escort  for  our  walks,"  said  the  Matron 
one  morning.  "Where  is  he?"  demanded 
Polly.  "  Outside  on  the  door-step,"  answered 
the  Matron.  "  How  rude  to  leave  him 
there!"   Polly  exclaimed.     "He   refused   to 

'  The  estate  of  The  Wakes  has  changed  hands  since  the  above 
was  written.  It  is  now  owned  by  Mr.  Andrew  Pears,  who  will 
doubtless  preserve  all  the  traditions. 

21 


Among  English  Inns 

come  in.     I  could  not  force  him."     "  Then 

he  is  the  rude  one.    How  did  you  meet  him?  " 

"  I  was  introduced  to  him  yesterday,  just  after 

he  had  finished  a  peppery  meal  of  wasps.    He 

is  a  Scotchman  with  four  legs,  a  tail  twice 

as  long  as  his  body,  and  a  passion  for  wasps. 

When  I  first  saw  him  he  was  chained  to  his 

kennel,    giving    forth    the    most    remarkable 

{    growls    and   yelps    I    ever   heard.      '  Them's 

//   Dirky's  wasping  growls,'  said  the  coachman, 

/      to  reassure  me.     '  You  see,   ma'am,  he  'ave 

I      marmalade    for    'is    tea.      The    wasps    come 

'       around  and  make  'im  angry,  but  after  'ees  eat 

five  or  six  'is  tea  tastes  better.'  "     Dirky's  tea 

consisted  of  bread  and  jam,  which  naturally 

attracted  the  voracious  Hampshire  wasps  in 

great  numbers,  but,  after  Dirky  had  executed 

a  war-dance,  accompanied  by  the  death-song, 

they  left  him  in  peace  to  devour  Kis  delectable 

dish. 

We  found  Dirky  a  most  amiable  and  will- 
ing guide.  He  trotted  ahead  and  we  followed 
to  the  church,  where  he  exchanged  amenities 
through  the  fence  with  the  vicar's  poodle, 
while  we  visited  the  Templars'  Tombs.  As 
soon  as  we  came  out,  he  resumed  the  lead, 
and  away  we  went  through  an  opening  in  the 
churchyard  hedge.    A  slippery  turf  path  took 

22 


The  Queens  Arms 

us  down,  faster  than  we  intended,  to  Barton 
Cottage,  at  the  entrance  to  the  Lythe.  While 
we  strolled  across  a  quaint  foot-bridge,  Dirky 
took  to  the  brook,  and  came  out  dripping  be- 
fore us  on  the  path  which  skirts  the  valley 
under  the  beeches.  The  ancient  road  to  the 
Priory  led  this  way;  we  had  just  seen  the 
church  the  Priors  founded.  The  Priory  was 
suppressed  as  long  ago  as  when  Magdalen 
College  in  Oxford  was  founded.  William  of 
Waynflete,  Bishop  of  Winchester,  dispersed 
the  Selborne  Priors  for  their  unparalleled 
wickedness,  and  bestowed  their  lands  on  his 
new  institution  of  learning.  No  sign  now 
remains  of  the  once  rich  Priory,  its  chapter- 
house, refectory,  or  dormitories,  except  the 
stones  which  are  incorporated  into  the  walls 
and  cottages  of  the  neighbourhood.  Mag- 
dalen College  holds  the  lands,  and  has  the 
living  of  Selborne  in  its  gift. 

The  Lythe  path  was  a  favourite  ramble  of 
Gilbert  White.  He  mentions  it  constantly  in 
his  letters.  It  leads  over  stiles  and  through 
underbrush  to  the  Priory  Farm,  a  relic  in 
name  only  of  the  former  home  of  the  gay 
monks  who  vanished  with  many  other  mon- 
asteries less  deserving  of  the  fate. 

Along  a  rough  bit  of  road,  over  low  hills 
23 


Among  English  Inns 

and  through  corn-fields,  on  a  beaten  track  so 
narrow  that  we  are  forced  to  go  in  single  file, 
with  Dirky  wagging  solemnly  on  ahead,  we 
come  again  upon  the  village.  From  the 
height  we  stop  to  gaze  enchanted  at  the  per- 
fect peace  and  quiet  of  the  scene.  The  war- 
like Hampshire  flies,  who  have  pursued  us 
throughout  the  entire  walk  with  the  tenacity 
of  their  kind,  are  the  only  blot  on  the  land- 
scape. 

The  bicycle  is  a  great  blessing  to  an  English 
tourist.  The  popularity  of  these  machines 
has  not  waned  as  it  has  in  the  United  States. 
Motor-cars  are  plenty,  but  they  are  beyond 
the  reach  of  travellers  like  our  party;  we  are 
glad  that  we  learned  to  ride  wheels.  The 
roads  about  Selborne  are  in  fine  condition. 
Through  Wollmer  Forest  and  past  Lord  Sel- 
borne's  estate  at  Blackmoor  is  a  long  stretch 
with  very  few  hills  to  mount.  We  rode  in  the 
long  twilight  through  deep-cut  lanes  and 
through  moorland  purple  with  heather. 

The  sun  does  not  give  us  here  at  its  setting 
the  brilliant  fireworks  with  which  it  often 
favours  us  at  home,  but,  when  we  sit  in  the 
smiling  garden  of  the  Queen's  Arms  after 
dinner,  we  are  content  to  see  the  trees  in  the 
Lythe   slowly   change    to   every   conceivable 

24 


The  Qtieeiis  Arms 

shade  of  green  with  the  fading  light.  At  this 
hour,  a  long  line  of  white  geese,  who  spend 
their  days  in  the  paddock  back  of  the  garden, 
can  be  seen  marching  gravely  home,  in  single 
file,  in  answer  to  a  whistle  from  the  farm 
where  they  belong.  A  dozen  or  more  tiny 
black  pigs,  who  are  growing  up  in  the  same 
field,  do  their  best  to  break  up  the  military 
goose  line  with  their  gambols,  to  the  intense 
delight  of  the  innkeeper's  tame  magpie,  who 
sits  on  the  fence  with  his  black  head  pop- 
ping up  among  the  sweet-pea  blossoms  and 
squawks. 

We  spent  a  good  part  of  our  last  day  in 
Selborne  deciding  how  to  proceed  on  our 
journey.  Winchester  lies  on  our  route  to 
Devonshire,  and  it  is  but  twelve  miles  by  road 
from  Selborne  to  Winchester.  We  counted 
shillings,  and  finally  concluded  to  take  the 
first  stage  of  our  journey  by  carriage.  Our 
bicycles  had  been  returned  to  the  man  in 
Alton,  from  whom  we  hired  them,  but,  even 
had  we  owned  the  wheels,  the  rumour  of  a 
mighty  hill  with  three  miles  of  continuous 
ascent  would  have  prevented  our  using  them 
on  the  road. 

Many  of  our  countrywomen  would  have 
disdained   the  simplicity  of  our  inn,  which 

25 


Among  Riiglish  Inns 

lacked  all  the  luxuries  to  which  most  Ameri- 
cans are  accustomed,  but  we  left  it  with  keen 
regret,  glancing  back  until  a  fall  of  the  road 
hid  village  and  inn  completely  from  our  sight. 

The  way  to  Winchester  leads  over  through 
pretty  villages  clustering  along  the  banks  of 
the  river  Itchen,  which  here,  as  a  tiny  stream, 
gives  little  promise  of  the  huge  mouth  it  opens 
in  Southampton. 

We  stopped  for  tea  at  the  uninteresting- 
looking  town  of  Arlesford.  The  pilgrims  in 
the  Middle  Ages,  on  their  way  to  Canterbury, 
halted  at  old  Arlesford.  It  is  now  fast  asleep, 
except  on  market-days,  but  there  is  good  hunt- 
ing hereabouts,  as  the  inn  signs  proclaim. 
"  The  Hare  and  Hounds,"  "  The  Horse  and 
Groom,"  "  The  Fox  "  mean  sporting  patrons. 
These  houses  of  entertainment  date  from 
stage-coach  days.  Their  picturesque  charms 
are  quite  ruined  now  by  the  ever-present  brew- 
er's advertisement  which  invariably  disfigures 
the  quaint  architecture. 

Itchen  Abbas,  a  most  delicious  stretch  of 
comfortable  homes  behind  high  hedges  and 
smooth  lawns  and  shaded  by  great  trees,  is  our 
last  halt  before  entering  Winchester.  We  ap- 
propriately halt  at  "  The  Coach  and  Horses  " 
to  water  the  horses.     Carriages,  with  smart 

26 


The  Queens  Arms 

liveries,  rolling  to  and  from  Winchester 
caused  Polly  to  declare:  "Here  live  the 
gentry!"  She  talks  of  "gentry"  w^ith  the 
delight  every  one  takes  in  a  word  seldom 
needed.  While  she  is  still  turning  it  over  on 
her  tongue,  we  clatter  through  a  fine  carved 
gateway  at  the  head  of  the  High  Street,  and 
go  down  to  "  The  George,"  where  to  welcome 
us  the  saint  and  his  dragon  are  painted  in 
glowing  colours  on  the  corner  of  the  house. 

The  Matron  casts  a  longing  glance  across 
the  street  at  a  black  swan  carved  in  high  re- 
lief with  a  proud  motto  underneath  and  a  gold 
crown  upon  his  head.  She  thinks  that  an  inn 
with  such  a  fine  sign  must  have  very  superior 
accommodations,  but  to  The  George  we  have 
been  taken,  so  at  The  George  we  re- 
main. This  hostelry  has  existed  as  an  inn  for 
several  centuries;  now,  very  much  restored 
and  reconstructed,  it  has  dropped  the  home- 
lier name  of  inn  for  the  grander  title  of  hotel. 
The  old  courtyard  into  which  the  coaches 
drove  has  become  a  glass-covered  palm-gar- 
den, and  the  cofifee-room  has  its  duplicate  in 
every  other  cathedral  town,  yet  there  hangs 
about  the  house  an  old-fashioned  air  of  com- 
fort which  is  never  found  in  the  newer  hotels. 

The  fluent  writers   of   the   Penny  Guides 
27 


Among  English  Inns 

/ 

give  full  descriptions  of  the  glories  of  Win- 
chester Cathedral,  and  a  guide-book,  which 
costs  sixpence,  fairly  overflows  with  informa- 
tion. We  did  not  follow  strictly  these  learned 
writers'  advice.  Polly  refused  to  admire  the 
graceful  perpendicular  architecture  of  the 
nave,  and  the  Matron  could  not  be  torn  away 
from  the  dream  of  knights  and  ladies,  induced 
by  the  grandeur  of  the  rude  Norman  tran- 
septs, while  the  Invalid  lingered  entranced 
before  the  delicate  catrvings  of  the  rich  mor- 
tuary chapels  in  the  thoir. 

"  If  architecture  is  frozen  music,  each  one 
of  these  is  a  sonata,"  she  exclaims.  One  of 
the  most  lovely  of  these  monuments  a  bar- 
barian called  "  P.ummel  "  has  disfigured  with 
his  hideous  name. 

There  is  nothing  more  wonderful  to  my 
mind,  among  all  the  wonders  of  Winchester 
Cathedral,  than  the  beautifully  coloured  effi- 
gies of  bishops  and  prelates,  which  fortunately 
escaped  the  vandals  of  the  iconoclastic  days 
of  the  early  Reformation.  Cardinal  Beaufort, 
a  son  of  that  very  turbulent  gentleman,  John 
of  Gaunt,  lies  here  carved  in  marble,  clad  in 
magnificent  red  robes,  looking  prosperous  and 
satisfied.  He  was  rich,  powerful,  and  gen- 
erous, for  it  is  said  he  gave  four  hundred  thou- 
^  28 


>  The  Queens  Arms 

•k 

sand  pounds  to  improve  the  condition  of  the 
poor  prisoners  of  his  time. 

The  ancient  kings  of  England  are  more  in- 
teresting in  Winchester  than  they  are  in  his- 
tory. Their  remains,  here  gathered  together 
in  chests  as  dainty  as  jewel-caskets,  are  placed 
high  above  on  the  choir  screen.  Their  names 
and  the  dates  of  their  reigns  were  the  plague 
of  my  school-days.  When  the  wise  verger 
who  was  guiding  us  about  mentioned  casually 
that  one  painted  casket  on  the  right  contained, 
as  remains  of  one  of  the  many  Ethels,  four 
skulls  and  six  thigh  bones,  and  another  on  the 
left  was  filled  with  assorted  biceps  belonging 
to  an  Edward,  no  one  was  the  least  surprised. 
Our  child's  history  taught  us  these  kings  were 
capable  of  an  unlimited  number  of  heads  and 
countless  minor  members. 

The  patron  saint  of  the  cathedral,  unlucky 
St.  Swithin,  lies  low  in^lhe  hospital  for  dam- 
aged carvings  behind  the  high  altar. 

"  Serves  him  right,"  observes  the  irreverent 
Polly,  whose  nerves  are ;  affected  by  the 
weather.  \ 

At  the  side  of  the  great  pokal  there  hangs 
on  the  wall  some  exquisite  grille  work.  These 
fragments  were  parts  of  the  former  gates  used 
to  keep  the  evil-smelling  pilgrims  out  of  the 

29 


Among  English  Inns 

choir.  Through  open  ironwork  they  could 
witness  the  ceremonies,  and  yet  not  bring  con- 
tagion to  the  monks.  These  gates  are  soon  to 
be  replaced  for  the  sake  of  their  artistic  value; 
evil  odours  have  now  quite  departed  from  this 
fresh  island. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  cathedral,  along  with 
the  prohibition  which  curbs  a  man's  desire 
to  marry  his  grandmother,  hangs  an  urgent 
request  that  "  all  worshippers  shall  leave  their 
dogs  at  home,  lest  their  antics  disturb  the  con- 
gregation." 

A  few  steps  in  front  of  the  grand  portal  is 
the  tomb  of  Private  Fletcher,  a  grenadier 
whose  only  claim  to  perpetuated  memory  is 
that  he  died  from  drinking  small  beer  when 
overheated.  What  small  beer  may  be  none 
of  this  party  has  ever  heard.  It  is  evidently 
much  more  deadly  than  any  other  kind.  His 
comrades  and  grenadiers  of  succeeding  gene- 
rations have  deplored  his  fate  in  a  lengthy  in- 
scription on  his  fine  tombstone. 

The  turbulence  of  old  times  in  Winchester, 
when  the  king  sent  messengers  to  defy  the 
Church,  the  Pope  sent  cardinals  to  intimidate 
the  king;  when  the  bishops  came  here  to  quar- 
rel with  the  nobles,  and  there  was  war  among 
all  parties,  has  given  place  to  a  placid  old  city 

30 


The  Queens  Arms 

in  which  all  the  excitement  is  supplied  by  the 
schoolboys  of  the  Winchester  College.  How 
far  the  young  gentlemen  of  the  preparatory 
school,  founded  by  William  of  Wykeham,  re- 
spect their  motto,  "  Manners  maketh  man," 
we  had  no  chance  to  judge.  The  long  vacation 
had  deprived  Winchester  of  even  that  source 
of  gaiety. 

Winchester  College  also  has  an  ideal  con- 
ception of  the  servant  question.  Above  the 
entrance  hangs  "  The  Trusty  Servant,"  not 
pretty  to  look  at,  but  how  valuable  one  may 
judge  from  the  description: 

"The  Padlock  shut,  no  secret  he'll  disclose; 
Patient  the  Ass,  his  master's  wrath  to  bear; 
Swiftness  in  errant,  the  Stag's  feet  declare  ; 
Loaded  his  Left  Hand,  apt  to  labour  saith  ; 
The  dress,  his  neatness.  Open  Hand  his  faith ; 
Girt  with  his  sword,  his  Shield  upon  his  arm, 
Himself  and  Master  he'll  protect  from  harm." 


.31 


CHAPTER    II 


AT  "  THE  THREE 

CROWNS  " 

Chagford,  Devon 

O  you  want  to  catch  the 
train  half  an  hour  be- 
fore the  time?"  in- 
quired the  facetious  Invalid,  as  Polly  and  I 
started  off  in  the  morning  to  walk  to  the  sta- 
tion instead  of  waiting  for  the  hotel  'bus. 

"  We  are  on  our  way  to  ask  a  few  questions. 
That  always  takes  time,"  we  answer  with 
dignity. 

Polly's  theory,  built  on  bitter  experience, 
is  that  the  American  manner  of  asking  ques- 
tions is  not  invariably  understood  in  England; 
therefore,  after  several  mishaps,  she  says  she 
has  invented  a  better  system.  It  consists 
of  fixing  her  eyes  on  the  face  of  her  lis- 
tener, asking  what  she  wants  to  know  carefully 
and  concisely,  putting  her  question  in  the  or- 

3^ 


At  "  The  Three  Crowns " 

dinary  manner,  then  backward,  then  from  the 
middle  word  toward  both  ends,  watching  with 
care  for  any  faint  gleam  of  intelligence  she 
may  see  displayed  in  the  listener's  eye.  At 
Yeoford,  where  we  are  to  leave  the  train  for 
Chagford  (our  next  halting-place),  we  wish 
to  be  very  sure  that  a  'bus  is  ready  and  wait- 
ing to  take  us  over  the  eleven  miles  of  road 
connecting  the  railway  with  the  town.  A  har- 
rowing experience  I  endured  one  unfortunate 
evening,  and  which  threatened  to  extend  it- 
self into  an  entire  night  at  that  small  station 
of  Yeoford,  has  made  us  doubly  wary. 

The  English  railroads  being  run  on  the 
principle  that  time  is  made  for  slaves,  the 
booking  agent  we  found  closely  imprisoned  in 
his  little  cell.  In  spite  of  our  imperative  rap- 
pings,  he  never  lifts  his  little  window  until 
nearly  train-time.  Then  fifteen  people  are 
kept  waiting  to  buy  their  tickets,  while  the 
obliging  man  (who,  by  the  way,  cannot  an- 
swer until  he  consults  the  time-tables)  pulls 
down  his  book,  and,  after  careful  search,  tells 
us  most  civilly  that  we  can  surely  depend  on 
finding  the  Chagford  coach  waiting  if  we 
take  the  train  now  due  here.  He  hands  us 
out  four  "  single  thirds  "  through  to  Chag- 
ford,  and  then   goes  on   calmly   distributing 

33 


Among  English  Inns 

tickets  to  the  patient  crowd  that  has  by  this 
time  increased  to  the  number  of  twenty- 
five. 

The  train,  of  course,  does  not  come  in  on 
time,  nor  does  it  hurry  itself  to  leave  until  ten 
minutes  after  time. 

We  are  serenely  happy  in  the  consciousness 
that,  as  this  is  the  train  the  coach  is  ordered 
to  meet,  the  coach  will  wait  for  this  particular 
train,  even  if  it  is  detained  until  midnight. 

"  So  much  for  proper  English  law  and 
order,"  says  the  Invalid. 

The  judicious  use  of  a  little  silver  coin  se- 
cures the  privacy  of  a  third-class  carriage 
quite  to  ourselves;  we  order  two  luncheon 
baskets  to  be  handed  in  at  Salisbury,  and  then 
proceed  to  be  comfortable  in  a  very  civilized 
manner.  The  English  luncheon  basket  is  a 
consoler  for  many  things  less  delightful  about 
their  much  abused  railways.  The  traveller 
orders  lunch  from  the  guard,  the  guard  tele- 
graphs ahead,  and  at  the  station  designated 
in  comes  a  boy  with  a  flat  basket,  for  which 
you  give  him  three  shillings  and  a  couple  of 
pennies  as  a  tip.  Inside  the  basket  is  a  bottle 
of  wine,  or  cider,  or  beer,  as  the  case  may  be, 
half  a  cold  chicken,  some  slices  of  ham,  bread, 
butter,  cheese,  fresh  crisp  lettuce,  all  daintily 

34 


At  "  The  Three  Crowns'' 

put  together,  with  plates,  a  glass,  and  Japanese 
napkins. 

The  graceful  spires  of  the  Salisbury  Cathe- 
dral point  up  into  clear  blue  sky  as  we  fly 
across  Salisbury  plain,  so  long  the  dread  of 
the  early  travellers,  who  went  by  coach  be- 
tween Salisbury  and  Exeter  by  reason  of  the 
interesting  but  somewhat  interfering  high- 
wayman. Even  a  highway-u'om<3;2  is  said  to 
have  succumbed  to  the  romantic  temptation  of 
Salisbury  plain,  but  she  got  hanged  for  her 
innocent  fancy. 

As  we  approach  Exeter,  higher  land  begins 
to  show  itself  on  either  side  of  the  line;  and 
at  St.  David's,  the  second  of  the  Exeter  sta- 
tions, comes  the  cry  "All  out!  Change  for 
Yeoford!"  and  a  sweet  satisfied  smile  breaks 
over  my  face. 

"  A  journey  without  change  of  carriage  is 
no  proper  English  journey,  especially  on  a 
through  train,"  I  tell  my  less  experienced 
friends. 

Yeoford  is  but  a  short  distance  beyond 
Exeter,  and  after  the  first  anxious  glance 
which  discovers  the  'bus  ready  waiting  for  us 
beside  the  platform,  we  climb  to  the  seat  be- 
hind the  driver,  as  the  only  passengers,  and 


ZS 


Among  English  Inns 

settle  ourselves  comfortably  for  the  eleven 
miles  of  road  before  us. 

When  at  the  top  of  the  first  high  ground 
w^e  look  back,  the  gray  mists  of  Exmoor  are 
are  far  behind  us.  We  know  it  is  Exmoor 
because  we  trust  the  driver  implicitly  for  our 
geography,  and  it  is  he  who  points  out  to  us 
the  land  of  Lorna  Doone  showing  dimly  on 
the  horizon.  Countless  miles  of  undulating 
meadow-land,  flowing  with  honey  and  Devon 
cream  at  sixpence  a  pot,  spread  between  us 
and  that  region  of  romance. 

The  ride  to  Chagford  on  the  coach  is  not 
dashing;  the  horses  have  many  hills  to  pull  up, 
and  the  driver's  tender  care,  combined  with 
the  heavy  brake,  prevents  them  from  going 
down  again  too  quickly.  The  setting  sun  has 
prepared  such  a  gorgeous  spectacle  in  our 
honour  that  we  should  have  been  satisfied  that 
evening  with  even  a  slower  pace.  We  came 
just  within  sight  of  Kes  Tor,  the  west  directly 
facing  us,  when  behind  the  roundest  hill  in 
sight,  the  sun  popped  down  looking  like  a 
huge  orange  globe;  then  every  sort  of  colour 
and  shade  of  red,  blue,  green,  and  purple,  at 
once  spread  over  the  hills  of  the  moorland  in 
the    background,    while    the    fertile    valleys 


36 


At  "  The  Three  Crowns " 

before  us  grew  blue  and  misty  as  we  gazed 
down  into  them. 

We  were  almost  at  the  end  of  the  eleven 
miles,  before  the  town  showed  itself  lying  in 
a  wide  basin  among  the  hills,  a  little  bunch  of 
white  houses,  and  a  tall  church  tower  giving 
back  answering  colours  to  the  brilliant  sky. 
Our  last  hill  was  very  steep,  and,  as  we  clat- 
tered down  into  the  narrow  town  street,  we 
got  a  peep  of  the  near-by  furze-grown  moor, 
making  a  rough  park  for  an  old  manor- 
house. 

The  most  fashionable  hotel  in  Chagford  is 
the  Moor  Park,  but  it  had  no  room  for  us, 
so  we  went  on  up  the  mounting  street  and  over 
the  market-place,  to  "  The  Three  Crowns," 
"  a  beautiful  old  mullioned  perpendicular 
inn,"  so  Charles  Kingsley  wrote  of  it. 

Since  I  had  last  been  here,  a  new  landlord 
and  a  good  scrubbing,  although  both  some- 
what modified  the  picturesque  appearance  of 
the  interior,  had  worked  wonders  for  the 
greater  comfort  of  guests.  The  musty  smell 
of  centuries  had  fled  before  hot  water  and 
soap,  new  paper  and  fresh  furniture. 

Our  party  filled  the  entire  house,  as  we  did 
at  "  The  Queen's  Arms,"  though  the  Invalid 
got  a  bedroom  to  herself  quite  large  enough 

37 


Among  English  Inns 

to  hold  us  all  had  we  lacked  other  accommo- 
dation. 

The  house  was  built  by  Sir  John  Whyddon, 
a  worthy  of  the  time  of  King  Henry  VIII. 
It  was  his  town  mansion.  He  was  a  gentle- 
man of  enterprising  instincts;  in  fact,  a  self- 
made  man.  Born  in  Chagford,  of  a  respect- 
able family,  but  one  hitherto  totally  without 
fame.  Sir  John's  youthful  ambitions  took  him 
to  London,  a  most  perilous  journey  when 
Henry  VII.  was  still  king.  Young  Whyddon 
studied  law,  rose  to  be  judge  of  the  King's 
Bench,  became  Sir  John,  and  had  the  un- 
speakable honour  of  being  the  first  judge  who 
rode  to  Westminster  on  a  horse;  previous  to 
that  eventful  occasion,  mules  had  been  con- 
sidered quite  good  enough  for  dignitaries  of 
the  law. 

The  old  house,  with  its  iron-barred,  deep- 
mullioned  windows  set  in  stone  frames,  its 
thick  walls,  and  stone  floors,  has  sheltered  in 
its  young  days  fine  ladies  and  grim  men-at- 
arms.  On  one  of  the  stone  benches  still  within 
the  entrance  porch,  there  sank  down,  shot  to 
death  for  his  loyalty  to  the  Stuarts,  Sir  Syd- 
ney Godolphin,  a  gentle  young  Cornishman, 
more  poet  than  soldier. 

The  thatched  roof,  green  and  brown  with 

38 


At  "  The  Three  Crowns " 

creeping  moss,  hangs  thick  above  the  rough 
gray  stones  of  the  walls;  while  here  and  there 
about  the  windows  cling  pink  clusters  of 
climbing  roses.  The  Three  Crowns  has  been 
used  as  an  inn  for  over  a  century.  The  old 
innkeeper  who  preceded  the  present  host,  was 
noted  far  and  near  throughout  Devon  in  his 
early  days  for  the  excellence  of  his  entertain- 
ment. Sorrow  over  the  unhappy  marriage  of 
a  favourite  son  drove  him  and  his  excellent 
wife  to  habits  fatal  to  their  business,  and  when 
that  unfortunate  party  with  which  I  was  de- 
tained at  Yeoford  came  to  The  Three  Crowns, 
the  care  of  the  visitors  was  entirely  in  the 
hands  of  a  little  serving-maid,  whose  endeav- 
ours to  please  were  recorded  in  the  guest-book. 
Her  admirers  showed  their  honest  apprecia- 
tion by  touching  poems  filled  with  such  sub- 
stantial similes  as: 

*'  Lizzie's  like  a  mutton  chop, 
Sometimes  cold,  and  sometimes  hot," 

or  again: 

"  Good  Lizzie  had  a  little  lamb, 
And  so  had  we, 
She  served  us  well, 

And  so  we  were  as  happy  as  could  be," 
39 


Among  English  Inns 

a  reflection,  I  fear,  upon  the  lack  of  variety 
Lizzie's  larder  displayed. 

Pretty  Lizzie  now  has  gone  to  delight  Lon- 
don with  her  service,  the  poor  old  hostess  has 
died  of  excesses,  and  the  old  innkeeper,  so 
many  years  host  of  The  Three  Crowns,  has 
been  succeeded  by  the  new  young  landlord, 
whose  bright  little  wife  has  tidied  up  the  an- 
cient inn.  It  now  boasts  a  bathroom,  electric 
lights  in  the  sitting-room,  and  owns  neither 
stuffed  birds  nor  battered  porcelain  cups  as 
decoration. 

The  Matron  remarked  that  the  portrait  of 
his  Majesty,  the  king,  we  have  in  our  sitting- 
room  "  looks  like  a  bird,"  but  that  observation, 
we  consider,  is  slangy  and  disrespectful. 

Sir  John  built  his  mansion  near  the  church, 
facing  the  churchyard  and  shaded  by  the  tall 
elms  which  grow  along  the  wall.  The  win- 
dows look  across  the  graveyard  and  a  sunny 
valley  to  the  low  outlying  hills  of  Fingle 
Gorge.  The  great  hall  of  the  old  mansion  is 
now  changed  to  a  schoolroom,  where  the  little 
children  of  Chagford  chant  their  lessons  in 
chorus,  a  system  of  education  still  fostered 
with  care  in  conservative  England;  we  also 
hear  them  singing  unaccompanied  hymns  with 
that  blissful  disregard  of  time  so  common  to 

40 


At  ''  The  Three  Crowns " 

their  age.  With  these  efforts  the  attempt  at 
their  education  appears  to  end. 

That  Chagford  is  doing  its  best  for  the 
future  of  England  and  the  colonies  is  evident 
from  the  long  lines  of  sturdy  boys  who  lounge 
along  the  churchyard  wall,  and  the  motherly 
little  girls  who  care  for  large  families  of  babies 
under  the  shade  of  the  tall  trees. 

Whatever  superstition  moorland  folk  may 
have,  and  the  writers  tell  us  they  revel  in  the 
supernatural,  the  fear  of  ghosts  certainly  does 
not  trouble  this  village  on  the  edge  of  Dart- 
moor. At  night,  after  the  children  have  de- 
serted the  burial-place  for  their  beds,  the 
churchyard  becomes  the  trysting-place  of  lov- 
ers, and  the  lounging  spot  for  the  youth  of  the 
village,  who  sit  on  the  wall,  and  make  night 
hideous  with  patriotic,  sentimental  war-songs. 
The  old  men  use  it  as  a  gathering-place,  where 
they  gossip  with  their  gaffers,  and  long  after 
midnight  footsteps  of  solitary  individuals  can 
be  heard  strolling  leisurely  through  a  short  cut 
made  between  the  lines  of  graves.  "  Early  to 
bed  and  early  to  rise  "  is  a  maxim  which  has 
evidently  not  yet  reached  Chagford. 

The  town  streets  all  radiate  from  the 
market-place.  There  is  a  quaint  octagonal 
building  which  the  brave  Chagford  yeomanry 

41 


Among  English  Inns 

use  as  an  armory,  but  where  the  market-cross 
was  erected  in  earlier  times.  The  low  houses 
are  packed  close  upon  the  narrow  streets,  and, 
being  built  of  stone  from  the  moors,  are  as 
solid  as  small  fortresses.  Their  clay  covering 
is  whitewashed,  yellow-washed,  or  pink- 
washed,  according  to  the  fancy  of  the  owner, 
and  there  are  moss-grown  thatched  roofs  side 
by  side  with  those  whose  old  tiles  are  coloured 
and  tinted  softly  by  the  dampness.  That 
superlatively  ugly  structure,  the  modern  brick 
villa,  has  crept  into  the  line,  alas!  and  dis- 
figures quaint  Chagford  as  it  does  so  many 
of  the  old  English  towns. 

Chagford  needs  a  Carnegie.  Its  public 
library  has  as  custodian  a  youth  who  divides 
his  attention  between  the  books  and  garden- 
ing, giving  most  of  his  time  to  the  latter  more 
congenial  occupation.  He  neither  knows  the 
names  of  the  books  on  the  shelves,  nor  has  he 
a  catalogue  to  help  the  reader.  After  we  had 
paid  a  shilling  to  become  reading-room  mem- 
bers for  a  week,  he  turned  us  loose  among  the 
scanty  bookcases,  and  we  made  the  startling 
discovery  that  Phillpotts  is  without  honour  in 
the  town  he  has  made  famous  in  literature, 
and  that  even  the  prolific  Baring  Gould  is 


42 


At  "  The  Three  Crowns " 

represented  here  but  by  one  dilapidated  old 
volume. 

The  road  past  the  library  leads  off  through 
shady  lanes  to  the  hill  whereon  Kes  Tor  sticks 
up  like  a  monument,  and  it  was  to  find  this 
rocky  beacon  that  we  took  our  first  walk, 
armed  with  a  road  map,  price  one  shilling. 

The  road  dips  up  and  down,  goes  over  nar- 
row streams,  past  pretty  hamlets,  and  busy 
mills.  The  Tor  smiled  on  us  so  invitingly 
from  different  points  of  vantage  that  we  tried 
various  short  cuts  to  reach  it,  with  appropri- 
ately disastrous  results.  The  old  rock  instantly 
hid  itself  as  soon  as  we  left  the  highroad,  and 
never  showed  again  until  we  came  meekly 
back,  to  be  tempted  and  fooled  another  time. 
After  many  failures,  we  were  finally  set  right 
by  a  jolly,  rosy,  smiling,  healthy  gamekeeper 
(minus  teeth),  who  told  us  a  way  marked 
"  private,"  which,  in  our  endeavour  to  be 
British  and  law-abiding,  we  had  studiously 
avoided,  and  which  was  not  private  at  all,  but, 
in  fact,  the  only  possible  way  to  reach  our 
longed-for  Tor. 

"  The  way  is  but  a  bit  beyond.  Over  the 
high  moor." 

So  we  go  a  bit,  and  still  several  more  bits, 
then  suddenly  we  remember  that  the  English 

43" 


Among  English  Inns 

idea  of  "  bits "  is  vague.  When  at  last  we 
camTe  out  on  the  high  moor  the  wind  was  so 
strong  it  nearly  took  us  off  our  feet,  and  the 
Tor  was  still  very  far  away,  according  to 
American  ideas  of  remoteness.  The  bracken 
and  the  furze  grew  thick  there  about  prehis- 
toric remains,  lying  scattered  all  around  us. 

A  long  avenue  of  stones  standing  on  end, 
like  tombstones  sunk  deep  into  the  ground, 
led  us  straight  to  the  ruins  of  funny  little 
round  huts,  roofless  and  demolished,  yet  suffi- 
ciently defined  to  show  that  they  once  were 
dwellings  for  men.  Into  one  of  these  we  crept 
to  rest  and  be  safe  from  the  wind,  and  then 
discovered  that  in  these  apparently  tiny  huts 
there  is  quite  room  enough  for  a  reasonably 
sized  family. 

"  As  deceptive  as  a  foundation,"  said  the 
Matron,  who  once  built  a  house. 

The  view  from  these  heights  is  superb.  On 
all  sides  can  be  seen  the  low  swelling  hills  of 
the  silent  moor,  one  rising  behind  the  other,  as 
though  they  went  on  in  a  never-ending  per- 
spective. At  our  feet  lay  the  houses  and  the 
church  of  Chagford,  so  clear  and  distinct  and 
near  that  we  felt  very  much  aggrieved  at  the 
long  miles  we  had  tramped.  Beyond  the  vil- 
lage the  low  hills  stretched  away,  and  away, 

44 


At  "  The  Three  Crowns " 

and  away,  until  they  lost  themselves  in  the 
sky  of  the  horizon. 

The  hills  on  the  moorland  are  all  smooth 
and  spherical.  There  are  no  trees  to  break 
the  line.  Only  here  and  there  does  a  tor  stick 
up  from  the  velvet  surface  like  a  stack  of 
chimneys,  and  the  carpet  of  soft  green  colour 
is  sometimes  broken  by  the  roads  which  look 
on  the  hillsides  like  great  crawling,  yellow 
serpents.  The  whole  landscape  resembles  a 
sea  whose  huge  waves  have  been  arrested  by 
magic  just  as  they  were  swelling  to  break. 
Somewhere  in  the  distance  are  hidden  those 
wild  valleys  where  range  the  "  Hound  of  the 
Baskervilles,"  and  Mr.  Conan  Doyle's  imag- 
ination, but  nothing  from  our  points  of  van- 
tage suggested  savage  wastes. 

When  we  left  our  hut  for  the  shelter  of  the 
Tor  to  protect  ourselves  under  its  shelf  from 
the  fierce  wind,  we  found  one  of  our  choicest 
illusions  gone.  The  Tor,  which  looks  so  im- 
pressive from  a  distance,  is  but  a  rocky  excres- 
cence on  close  examination. 

The  heather  was  beginning  to  show  its 
lovely  pinkish-purple  flowers  on  the  side  of 
rough  Scorhill,  along  which  we  strolled 
toward  home  through  clover-fields  until  we 
reached  the  road.     Leigh  Bridge,  so  praised 

45 


Among  English  Inns 

in  the  guide-books,  was  on  our  path,  and  we 
stopped  to  lean  over  the  rough  stone  parapet 
and  gaze  at  banks  hung  with  purple  rhododen- 
drons, where  the  North  Teign  leaps  and 
pushes  between  mossy  stones  to  join  its  brother, 
the  South  Teign.  The  rivers  there  celebrate 
their  reunion  by  loud  gurglings  and  bubblings 
and  tumblings  down  a  tiny  waterfall.  This 
meeting-place  is  in  the  thick  woodland  full 
of  flowering  moss,  pink  and  white.  The  tall 
foxgloves  carpet  the  ground,  and  by  the  road- 
side is  a  hedge  where  wild  roses  and  honey- 
suckle climb  over  the  shining  holly  to  join 
the  many  wayside  flowers,  with  the  morning- 
glory  vines  running  as  messengers  between 
them  all.  There  are  not  many  choicer  forest 
scenes  in  the  world  than  here  at  Leigh  Bridge. 
Every  tree  is  trimmed  with  ivy,  and  every 
fallen  log  covered  with  flowering  moss,  and 
more  wild  flowers  than  we  ever  saw  together 
before. 

Nearer  Chagford  stands  Holy  Street  Mill, 
greatly  in  favour  with  painters.  It  is  said  no 
Academy  Exhibition  is  ever  without  a  copy  of 
this  bit  of  woodscape.  To  nature's  decoration 
on  the  banks  of  the  quick-flowing  stream  there 
is  added  a  ruined  mill  and  a  delightful  old 
Tudor  farmhouse  embowered  in  roses,   red, 

46 


At  *'  The  Three  Crowns''' 

white,  and  yellow,  built  in  a  garden  as  full  of 
cultivated  flowers  as  the  near-by  woodland 
is  rich  in  wilder  blossoms. 

Chagford  has  a  street-cleaning  department 
of  one  oldest  inhabitant,  who  scrapes  the  street 
vigorously  all  day  and  late  into  the  night. 

Chagford  has  also  an  enterprising  brass 
band  which  plays  vigorously  several  evenings 
each  week,  and  Chagford  has  electric  lights, 
and  a  fine  organist  to  play  on  its  fine  organ 
in  its  fine  old  Church  of  St.  Michael.  The 
organ  is  comparatively  new,  and  there  is  still 
a  tradition  of  the  simpler  days  when  the  pre- 
centor marched  up  and  down  the  aisle  whis- 
tling the  hymn-tune  for  the  congregation  to 
follow  with  their  singing.  The  church  is 
centuries  old,  and  has  curious  carved  bosses 
along  the  vaulting  of  the  ceiling,  commem- 
orating long-forgotten  lords  of  the  manor.  A 
huge  iron  key  hangs  near  the  monstrous  lock 
on  the  heavy  ancient  door:  heraldic  emblems, 
a  little  the  worse  for  dust,  are  still  above  the 
pews  of  the  neighbouring  gentry,  and  a  quaint 
old  tombstone  within  the  chancel  marks  the 
grave  of  Sir  John  Whyddon's  granddaughter. 
Her  gentle  charms  and  no  less  attractive  vir- 
tues are  set  forth  in  the  following  epitaph: 


47 


Among  English  Inns 

READER   WOULDST  KNOW 

"  Reader  wouldst  know  who  here  is  laid 
Behold  a  Matron  yet  a  Maid 
A  Modest  looke  A  pious  Heart 
A  Mary  for  the  better  Part 
But  drie  thine  eies  Why  wilt  thou  weepe 
Such  damsells  doe  not  die  but  Sleepe" 

The  Whyddon  estate  lies  some  five  miles 
from  Chagford,  at  Whyddon  Park;  and  in 
St.  Michael's  Church  lie  buried  many  de- 
scendants of  the  noted  old  judge. 

It  means  a  long  drive  to  see  the  moor  prop- 
erly. All  the  low  hills  within  the  boundaries 
of  Chagford  are  outlying  portions  of  Dart- 
moor, and  on  one  of  these,  Nattadown  Com- 
mon, amid  the  furze  and  the  bracken,  we 
generally  spent  the  evening,  sitting  at  the  base 
of  an  ancient  cross  erected  nobody  knows 
when,  watching  a  gorgeous  sky  display  after 
sundown. 

It  is  only  a  mighty  pedestrian  who  can  see 
the  moors  by  tramping  over  them.  The  most 
interesting  part  of  this  great  romantic  region 
does  not  begin  until  the  town  has  been  left 
several  miles  behind.  We  accordingly  paid 
ten  shillings,  and  in  a  comfortable  wagonette, 
under  the  conduct  of  our  landlord,  who  has 


At  "  The  Three  Crowns " 

been  a  moor  man  ^  some  years,  we  started  out 
one  afternoon  to  see  what  we  could  of  Dart- 
moor between  luncheon  and  dinner.  A  splen- 
didly built  road  winds  about  out  along  the 
sides  of  the  billowy  hills.  The  few  poor  acres 
of  farm-land  scattered  here  and  there  around 
a  lonely  house  beyond  the  town  were  soon 
passed;  then  we  passed  into  the  great  silent 
region.  Flocks  of  sheep  cropping  the  sweet 
grass  under  the  prickly  furze,  some  herds  of 
bullocks  below  in  the  swampy  hollows,  the 
wild  little  moor-ponies  shaking  their  shaggy 
manes,  and  scampering  ofif  as  we  came  near, 
were  all  the  signs  of  life  we  saw  on  the  lonely 
green  stretches. 

"  There  is  Grimspound,"  said  our  coach- 
man. 

Grimspound  is  a  prehistoric  village.  Our 
horse  ready  for  a  rest,  we  got  out  and  pulled 
ourselves  up  a  rough  path.  It  is  quite  worth 
the  trouble. 

At  least  twenty-five  of  the  queer  little  stone 
ruins  are  still  traceable,  and  one  has  been 
restored  by  antiquarians,  the  top  covered  over 
with  turf,  the  low  entrance  concealed  by  a 
semicircular  wall,  and  restored  to  what  those 

'  Meaning  one  who  looked  after  the  interest  of  the  duchy  in  Dart« 
moor. 

49 


Among  English  Inns 

learned  in  such  matters  think  was  the  burrow 
of  the  human  animal.  The  village  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  rough  stone  wall,  and  the  view 
from  the  great  height  gave  the  savage  man 
not  only  a  chance  to  see  enemies  miles  away 
in  that  treeless  country,  but  to  keep  watch  over 
the  wanderings  of  his  flocks.  After  Grims- 
pound,  the  road  twists  itself  through  a  huge 
rabbit-warren,  where  millions  of  the  little  fel- 
lows flash  their  tails  in  and  out  of  their  habi- 
tations. A  desolate  house  occupied  by  the 
warrener  is  here.  In  summer  it  is  pleasant, 
but  what  must  the  winter  be!  We  were  told 
that  Eden  Phillpotts,  the  writer,  had  spent 
some  months  here.  It  may  be  that  he  was 
writing  "  The  River "  then.  There  is  one 
other  habitation,  some  miles  beyond  the  war- 
ren, an  exceedingly  attractive  house,  closed 
and  deserted. 

"  Too  lonely  for  anybody  but  ghosts,"  ven- 
tured the  Invalid. 

"  How  do  you  suppose  they  ever  got  food 
here?"  asked  practical  Polly. 

"  A  few  trees  grow,"  said  the  Matron,  "  why 
not  potatoes?"  which  made  the  driver  smile. 
The  trees  in  question  were  the  scrubbiest  of 
pines. 

We  drove  past  the  haunts  of  the  ancient  tin 

50 


At  "  The  Three  Crowns " 

streamers,  who  made  their  living  on  the  moor 
when  England  was  a  young  country  by  search- 
ing the  small  rivers  for  metal.  Here  and  there 
by  the  roadside  we  spied  an  ancient  cross  put 
up  by  the  monks  centuries  ago,  to  guide  them 
from  parish  to  parish. 

There  are  still  some  mines  open  in  deep 
glens.  "  Not  very  profitable,"  our  driver  said. 
One,  quite  deserted,  had  the  great  wheel  and 
ruined  windlass,  like  ghosts  of  the  past,  stick- 
ing out  of  the  ground  on  a  hill  all  seamed  and 
seared  by  the  old  workers.  Near  it  still  stands 
a  villainous-looking  tavern  not  in  very  good 
repute.  From  the  site  of  the  old  mines  we 
got  a  good  view  of  the  gloomy  prison  at  Prince 
Town,  looming  up  against  the  sky  on  top  of  a 
hill  miles  away.  Brilliant  green  stretches  of 
glittering  bog-land  lay  below  us,  and  our 
horse  went  down  a  long,  long  hill  with  cau- 
tious steps,  to  stop  at  a  pretty  little  inn  in  a 
dale  where  there  are  actually  full-grown  trees. 
This  is  Post  Bridge,  and  dignified  by  the  name 
of  a  village,  although  we  see  nothing  but  the 
inn. 

"  The  tea  may  not  be  good,"  said  cautious 
Polly,  "  but  it  will  be  refreshing  after  our 
long  drive." 

From  Post  Bridge  we  returned  home  by 
51 


Among  R^iglish  Imts 

new  roads,  but  we  had  already  seen  the  chief 
characteristics  of  the  moorland.  Although 
different  points  of  view  reveal  different  as- 
pects, the  scenery  is  all  more  or  less  the  same, 
and  it  is  hard  to  imagine  on  this  bright,  smil- 
ing day  that  the  cruel  blind  mist,  which  so 
often  leads  travellers  astray,  can  ever  settle 
down  upon  this  open  landscape,  or  that  the 
blackness  of  night  can,  as  so  often  happens, 
envelop  these  green  hills  at  noontime.  Dart- 
moor has  moods,  and,  although  the  sadness 
of  its  face  may  be  too  vividly  described  by 
the  guide-book  authors,  the  impression  of  its 
lonely  desolation  is  felt  in  the  midst  of  bright 
sunshine. 

The  moor-sheep  and  the  rough  cattle  graze 
here  on  the  hills,  and  sturdy  ponies  range  about 
at  will,  growing  so  wild  that  the  poor  little  fel- 
lows cry  like  children  when  they  are  first  put 
into  harness.  In  our  drive  of  several  hours 
we  saw  only  one  man.  He  was  a  herder  out 
looking  after  the  roaming  cattle  over  which 
the  duchy  is  supposed  to  have  some  super- 
vision. Each  duchy  tenant  is  allowed  to  keep 
on  the  moor  as  many  sheep  and  cattle  as  he  can 
shelter  in  his  own  barns  during  the  winter; 
but  human  nature  is  weak,  and  not  only  does 
the  rustic  fail  in  honesty  occasionally,  but  a 

52 


At  ''The  Three  Crowns'' 

few  of  them  have  been  known  to  go  secretly 
out,  gather  their  neighbours  branded  sheep, 
and  drive  them  quietly  with  their  own  to  the 
nearest  market,  where  they  could  sell  them 
unnoticed,  although  by  such  dishonesty  they 
become  but  a  few  miserable  shillings  richer. 
^  Cranmere  Pool  has  the  reputation  of  being 
the  very  wildest  spot  to  be  seen  in  the  whole 
extent  of  Dartmoor.  The  boldest  members 
of  our  party  longed  to  get  there.  So  far,  we 
had  seen  nothing  in  our  exploration  which 
to  the  transatlantic  eye,  accustomed  to  the 
scenery  of  our  native  land,  looked  as  wild  as 
the  descriptions  we  had  read  with  awe.  Our 
landlord  offered  cheerfully  to  guide  us  to 
Cranmere,  casually  observing  the  while,  "  The 
way  is  very  tiresome,  and  there  ain't  nothin' 
to  see  but  a  bog  when  you  get  there." 

But  he  does  not  know,  as  we  do,  that  a 
bogey  lives  at  Cranmere  Pool,  and  a  very  jolly 
bogey,  too.  In  life  he  was  the  wicked  Mayor 
of  Okehampton,  and,  having  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  die  when  such  punishments  were  in 
fashion,  he  was  set  about  bailing  out  Cran- 
mere Pool  with  a  sieve.  Having  been  a  very, 
very  wicked  person  in  life,  he  was  up  to  a 
trick  or  two  after  his  death,  so  he  searched 
about  the  moor  until  he  found  a  dead  sheep. 


Amo7ig  Ejiglish  Inns 

which  he  skinned,  and  with  the  hide  he  made 
his  sieve  water-proof  and  well  tightened.  He 
then  proceeded  to  flood  Okehampton.  This 
game  he  found  so  entertaining  that  he  refused 
his  pardon,  and  has  continued  ever  since,  when 
he  is  not  busy  sleeping,  to  repeat  the  joke. 

As  Dartmoor  covers  one  hundred  thousand 
acres  or  more,  we  hardly  had  time  to  explore 
the  whole.  We  saw  enough  to  be  convinced 
that  there  was  a  striking  similarity  about  all 
the  hills,  all  the  bogs,  and  all  the  lonely  rabbit- 
warrens  within  its  limits.  The  Hampshire 
uplands  sink  into  m.ole-hills  before  these  great 
billowy  heights,  although,  in  reality,  the  high- 
est point  of  Dartmoor  is  not  more  than  twelve 
hundred  odd  feet  above  the  sea-level. 

It  was  the  view  of  the  heather  just  coming 
into  bloom  which  started  Polly  and  me  ofif 
on  the  walk  to  Fingle  Bridge,  one  of  the  most 
romantic  spots  about  Chagford.  The  Matron 
and  the  Invalid  went  by  carriage.  They  were 
immensely  pleased  with  the  charming  drive, 
but  they  lost  the  ramble  along  the  path  beside 
the  river  and  the  intimacy  we,  who  trudged, 
gained  with  this  most  theatrical  little  gorge. 
Brilliant  pink  carpeted  hills  on  one  side,  fold 
into  other  hills  opposite  covered  with  green 
young  oak-trees;    the  tiny  river  dashes  along 

54 


At  **  The  Three  Crowns'' 

in  between,  curving  and  twisting  all  the  way. 
No  hill  in  the  entire  gorge  would  be  hard  to 
climb,  but  the  whole  scenery  is  in  such  perfect 
proportion,  river,  trees,  rocks,  and  hills  on 
so  small  a  scale,  that  the  tiny  ravine  has  a 
wild  majesty  not  often  found  in  nature.  In 
places  the  heather-covered  slopes  came  so 
close  to  the  water  that  we  were  forced  to 
clamber  over  the  rough  stones  to  find  our  path 
again;  the  trout  shot  in  and  out  in  the  clear 
babbling  water,  but  no  fishing  with  a  bent 
pin  is  allowed  here.  Fishing  tickets  must  be 
got  in  Chagford.  We  lingered  along  the 
grassy  banks,  fascinated  by  the  bristling  little 
stream,  until  we  reached  the  stepping-stones 
near  the  mill.  Greatly  to  Polly's  delight,  I 
lost  courage  half-way  over,  and  was  afraid  to 
spring  over  the  rushing  water  until  the  con- 
tinued quack  of  the  mill  ducks  shamed  me 
by  their  very  evident  ridicule. 

England  is  no  place  for  hurrying,  and  a 
sojourn  in  Chagford  should  be  lengthened  to 
three  weeks,  to  fully  enjoy  all  the  pleasure 
the  woods  and  the  hills  have  here  to  offer. 
Although  our  plans  allowed  us  but  little  time 
for  lingering,  we  stole  another  day  for  the  sake 
of  visiting  the  Okehampton  Saturday  market- 
day. 


Among  English  Inns 

A  market-day  is  the  weekly  dissipation,  the 
one  exhilarating  spot  in  the  English  farmer's 
summer  life.  The  men  come  from  far  and 
near  to  transact  their  business,  to  talk  crops 
and  live  stock,  the  women  to  gossip,  and  the 
dogs  to  exchange  their  opinions  about  driving 
sheep.  Okehampton  not  only  has  a  fine 
market,  but  the  town  lies  in  the  shadow  of  a 
great  Tor  among  the  highest  moorland  hills. 
The  ride  thither  on  the  'bus,  all  the  sights 
of  Okehampton,  and  our  dinner  at  the  best 
inn  cost  but  the  sum  of  four  shillings.  Our 
economical  treasurer  therefore  permitted  this 
unforeseen  expense.  The  distance  is  eleven 
miles,  and  along  this  road  the  view  of  the 
great  plain  of  Devon,  dotted  with  farms  and 
marked  out  by  broad  fields,  is  so  expansive 
that  it  seems  almost  boundless.  The  Invalid 
said  she  felt  as  if  she  were  looking  all  over 
the  world. 

Along  this  highway  are  scattered  little  vil- 
lages with  tiny,  gaudy  gardens  carefully  pro- 
tected by  stone  walls  strong  enough  to  hold 
back  an  army.  The  proximity  of  the  stone- 
Strewn  moor  and  the  difficulties  of  hewing  the 
rock  probably  account  for  the  huge  stones 
used  in  building  very  low  fences  and  tiny  cot- 
tages.    The  walls  alone  are  thicker  than  the 

56 


At  '*^  The  Three  Crowns " 

open  space  in  the  houses.  There  is  a  copper 
mine  being  worked  on  this  road  to  Okehamp- 
ton,  but  it  looked  neither  rich  nor  prosperous 
to  our  eyes.    It  may  be  both. 

We  picked  up  market-goers  at  each  hamlet 
and  farm,  and  before  we  reached  Okehamp- 
ton  the  coach-top  was  buzzing  with  the  soft 
sound  of  a  Devon  dialect  almost  incompre- 
hensible to  our  American  ears. 

An  English  market-place  shows  the  nearest 
approach  to  bustling  activity  to  be  found  in 
the  rural  district.  The  pigs  are  scrubbed  up, 
and  the  cattle  groomed  down  for  the  occasion. 
They  arrive  in  droves,  in  couples,  or  singly, 
at  the  eminently  comfortable  hour  of  ten  in 
the  morning.  "  Pigs  at  eleven  "  means  that 
the  auction  sales  begin  then.  The  market 
auctioneer  is  a  very  important  personage, 
often  growing  rich  from  his  business.  He 
calls  off  the  bids  in  shillings  in  a  way  that 
drove  poor  Polly  crazy.  She  always  labori- 
ously reduced  them  to  pounds.  "  Sixty? 
Seventy-five  shillings?  Eighty?  Ninety- five 
shillings?  "  rolled  off  with  fluency,  makes  her 
wonder  how  much  a  fat  porker  knocked  down 
at  ninety  shillings  is  really  worth.  An  extra 
fat  sheep,  or  an  especially  fine  pig,  is  some- 
times favoured  with  a  ride  behind  its  owner 

57 


Among  English  Inns 

in  the  dog-cart.  These  dog-carts  roll  in 
quickly  from  all  sides,  the  vehicles  being  built 
all  on  one  and  precisely  the  same  pattern, 
and  the  owner's  rank  or  riches  chiefly  deter- 
mined by  the  state  of  the  carriage  paint  and 
varnish.  The  horses  are  all  such  well- 
groomed,  well  cared  for  beasts,  that  their 
condition  gives  small  indication  of  their  own- 
er's estate.  The  farmer  himself  scrubs  up 
like  his  animals,  puts  on  breeches  and  gaiters, 
a  cutaway  coat,  and,  with  his  light  waist- 
coat, white  stock,  and  carefully  brushed  hat, 
he  makes  an  appearance  which  would  be  no 
disgrace  to  a  smart  New  York  riding-school 
master.  In  this  attire  he  is  thoroughly  at 
home.  He  bestrides  his  horse,  or  drives  his 
cart,  and  even  guides  a  wayward  calf  or  a 
flock  of  fine  sheep  without  any  loss  of  dignity, 
"  but  he  does  look  like  a  blufif  stage  squire," 
said  Polly. 

The  shepherd's  smock,  so  picturesque  in 
olden  times,  has  now  given  place  to  an  ugly 
linen  coat.  This  garment  seems  to  impel  a 
shepherd  to  hold  up  both  arms  and  cry 
mildly:  "  Ho!  Ho!  "  at  intervals;  the  wearers 
of  linen  coats  allow  themselves  to  indulge  in 
no  more  forcible  vehemence.  The  calmness 
and  the  patience  of  the  British  country  folk 

J8 


At  "  The  Three  Crowns'' 

never  shows  itself  more  agreeably  than  when 
they  are  driving  live  stock  to  market.  Some 
tiny  pigs,  who  infinitely  preferred  the  seclu- 
sion of  a  shop  to  the  market-pens,  were  pur- 
sued by  men  and  boys  without  a  sound.  Gen- 
tly they  waved  handkerchiefs  in  the  unruly 
little  piglets'  faces,  as  if  "  Pigs  at  eleven  " 
had  never  been  the  rule.  A  single  farmer's 
boy  in  New  England  can  make  more  noise 
driving  home  two  cows  at  night  than  we  heard 
all  that  day  in  Okehampton. 

The  White  Hart  Inn  has  a  fine  big  balcony 
over  the  front  porch,  and  on  this  we  camped 
comfortably  as  in  a  private  box  to  look  down 
on  the  scene  beneath.  The  bullocks  ran  about, 
more  or  less  alarmed  by  their  unwonted  sur- 
roundings. Complaining  calves  were  well 
protected  by  anxious  cow-mothers,  who 
charged  boldly  at  all  possible  enemies.  Silly 
sheep  were  kept  out  of  the  narrow  doors  by 
the  watchful  dogs,  and  the  grunting,  fat,  black 
swine  ambled  comfortably  along. 

It  is  only  after  the  serious  business  of  the 
cattle  auction  is  over  that  the  real  excitement 
on  the  High  Street  begins.  Then  the  farmers 
and  the  squires  gather  in  little  groups,  talking 
together,  and  emphasizing  every  statement  by 
striking  against  their  leather  gaiters  with  a 

59 


Among  English  Inns 

riding-crop,  in  good  old  theatrical  manner. 
The  farmers'  wives  go  shopping;  John 
Ploughman  lounges  about,  looking  for  em- 
ployment, with  his  cords  tied  by  strings  below 
the  knees,  and  his  loose  red  handkerchief 
knotted  about  the  neck.  A  few  soldiers  from 
the  camp  on  the  moor  add  a  bright  touch, 
with  their  red  coats,  to  the  sober  crowd;  the 
children  run  about  everywhere  quietly  and 
happily,  and  the  shepherd  dogs  have  grand 
romps  with  their  kind,  reserving  contemptu- 
ous growls  for  the  town  dogs. 

Later  in  the  day,  after  the  serious  business 
of  dinner  is  over,  horses  to  be  sold  arrive  one 
at  a  time  in  the  High  Street,  and  show  their 
paces.  A  good-looking  lot  they  are,  from  the 
little  moor-pony  who  has  only  just  learned  to 
obey  a  master  to  the  great,  lumbering  farm- 
horse. 

It  is  a  lengthy  proceeding,  this  horse-selling 
in  an  English  town;  the  purchaser  and  all  his 
friends  look  knowingly  over  every  point  of  the 
animal.  He  is  made  to  go  up  and  down  the 
street  again  and  again.  The  small  boy  on  his 
back  rides  him  like  a  master;  he  shows  ofif 
the  horse's  gait,  the  tender  condition  of  his 
mouth.  The  beast  has  been  groomed  until 
he  shines  like  satin,  and  his  mane  and  tail  are 

60 


At  "  The  Three  Crowns'' 

either  carefully  waved,  or  tied  up  in  fantastic 
style  with  straw.  While  this  slow,  careful 
sale  was  going  on,  and  there  was  no  fear  of 
meeting  stray  herds  of  such  wild  animals  as 
we  had  seen  led  meekly  to  market,  we  judged 
the  time  safe  to  see  the  sights. 

Okehampton  has  a  ruined  castle  hidden 
away  in  a  park  fit  for  the  Sleeping  Beauty. 
Here  rhododendrons,  roses,  and  all  the  former 
cultivation  of  the  great  garden  have  gone  back 
again  into  wilderness,  and  have  mingled  with 
the  superb,  great  ivy-grown  trees  which  shade 
the  tumbled-down  walls.  Here  was  a  mighty 
castle.  It  clambered  all  over  the  hillside. 
A  ghost  still  haunts  the  spot.  Lady  Howard, 
once  the  supremely  wicked  mistress,  in  a  coach 
of  bones,  or  bones  herself,  I  have  forgotten 
which,  but  anyway,  something  very  dreadful 
to  see,  travels  each  night  from  Tavistock  to 
pick  a  blade  of  grass;  this  task  she  must  per- 
form until  all  the  grass  at  Okehampton  is 
plucked.  What  she  did  to  deserve  this  fate, 
except  to  be  just  wicked,  no  one  in  Okehamp- 
ton seems  to  know,  but  she  has  been  very 
badly  talked  about  for  the  last  couple  of  cen- 
turies, and  she  certainly  has  a  hard  task  before 
her. 

Under  Yes  Tor,  the  most  noted  of  Dart- 
6i 


Among  English  Inns 

moor's  rocky  piles,  is  a  camp  where  all  the 
great  artillery  practice  goes  on.  The  noise  of 
the  big  guns  booms  over  the  entire  moorland 
district,  making  certain  parts  of  it  rather  dan- 
gerous for  excursionists,  but  there  are  warning 
notices  in  plenty. 

The  ride  home  with  a  coach-load  of  soft- 
tongued  Chagford  folk  was  delightful.  They 
made  great  jokes  with  the  driver  about  the 
sober  coach  steeds,  of  whom  he  took  the  great- 
est care,  never  urging  them  at  any  time,  and 
putting  them  down  the  hills  slowly  with  the 
aid  of  a  heavy  brake.  One  lad  on  top  jeered 
constantly  at  the  slowest  nag,  named  Dick, 
until  he  was  laughingly  advised  by  the  driver 
to  "  take  Dick  and  ride  he  home,  for  him's 
horses  are  no  better  than  they  I'  by  which  wise 
remark  it  would  appear  that  the  personal 
pronoun  on  a  Chagford  tongue  gets  hopelessly 
mixed.  There  are  no  confusing  rules  about 
the  Devon  English  grammar,  nor,  in  fact,  are 
there  in  our  own  New  Hampshire,  where  I 
once  heard  a  farmer's  boy  roll  off  glibly  "  if 
I'd  'a'  knowed  that  you'd  'a'  came,  I  wouldn't 
'a'  went." 

It  was  by  way  of  Moreton  Hampstead  we 
decided  to  leave  Chagford.  It  is  only  five 
miles  to  the  railway  station  by  this  road,  and 

62 


At  "  The  Three  Crowns " 

a  coach  makes  the  connection  many  times 
each  day.  As  compared  with  the  drive  either 
to  Yeoford  or  to  Okehampton,  the  road  is 
dull,  although  a  Tor  for  sale  was  pointed  out 
to  us.  The  way  to  Exeter  by  the  railroad 
from  Moreton  is  delightful;  the  train  runs 
around  in  and  out  among  the  cliffs  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  South  Devon  sea.  On  this  jour- 
ney, while  making  one  of  the  usual  changes 
at  Newton  Abbot,  our  most  cherished  object 
went  astray,  namely,  a  straw  creation,  in  the 
shape  of  a  bag,  baptized  by  the  Matron 
Jumbo.  Jumbo,  like  an  omnibus,  is  never  full. 
Jumbo  opens  a  capacious  maw,  and  swallows 
all  our  trailers,  from  tooth-brushes  to  unan- 
swered love-letters.  He  smiles  broadly  on  all 
the  left-overs,  after  the  trunks  have  departed, 
and  takes  in  every  forgotten  trifle.  We  all  had 
part  and  parcel  in  Jumbo.  He  vanished  on 
this  trip. 

We  had  arrived  in  Exeter  before  his  loss 
was  discovered.  The  colour  and  beauty  of 
the  green-topped  red  cliffs,  the  boats,  the 
changing  blue  of  the  sea,  and  the  flat,  paint- 
able  banks  of  the  river  Exe,  had  so  entirely 
absorbed  our  attention  that  no  one  noticed  his 
loss.  Jumbo  was  the  Matron's  own  private 
property  and  pet;  when  she  discovered  that  he 

63 


Ainong  English  Inns 

had  disappeared,  she  promptly  fell  upon  me 
with  reproaches,  and  the  assertion  that  it  was 
to  my  care  she  had  confided  the  precious 
charge  while  she  went  looking  for  a  porter. 

I  had  a  certain  indefinite  sense  of  being 
guiltless,  but  I  know  myself  to  be  careless  and 
forgetful.  Then,  too,  I  stand  in  such  whole- 
some awe  of  the  Matron's  wrath  that  I  dared 
not  contradict  her  statement.  I  fled  to  that 
haven  of  all  British  travellers,  The  Lost  Prop- 
erty Office. 

"  A  bag,  a  straw  bag,  left  at  Newton 
Abbot?  "  wrote  down  the  chief  clerk  in  that 
most  important  institution;  "it  will  be  for- 
warded to  you  at  Bideford." 

"  But  perhaps  it's  been  stolen,"  hazarded 
the  Matron,  who  had  followed  me. 

"  Oh,  no,  madam !  It  will  be  surely  found," 
civilly  concluded  the  official,  but  we  were  not 
quite  so  confident  in  human  honesty.  With 
their  present  surprising  luggage  system,  the 
British  railroads  could  not  exist  without  The 
Lost  Property  Office.  Our  train  stood  ready, 
and  we  ran  in  answer  to  Polly's  wild  motions, 
jumped  into  a  carriage  we  hoped  was  the 
right  one,  trusting  to  Providence  in  the  ab- 
sence of  proper  indications. 

With  a  feeble  toot-toot  and  many  vigorous 
64 


At  '*  The  Three  Crowns " 

puffs  of  steam,  we  passed  over  the  bridge  to 
St.  David's,  the  square  towers  of  Exeter  Ca- 
thedral showing  among  a  crowd  of  houses 
on  the  hill  behind  us,  and  went  on  through  the 
high  land  till  the  railroad  line  dropped  down 
slowly  on  to  the  low,  sedgy  land  meadows, 
where  bright-tinted  headlands  stood  up  along 
playful  little  inlet  rivers  running  boldly  into 
the  land  to  make  believe  they  were  the  great 
sea  itself. 

Bideford  is  built  along  one  of  these,  named 
the  Taw,  and,  when  our  train  stopped,  we 
speedily  transferred  ourselves  to  the  upper- 
most seat  of  a  high  drag  which  was  in  readi- 
ness to  take  us  to  the  New  Inn  at  Clovelly. 


6? 


CHAPTER    III 


CLOVELLY 


lERE  being  no 
other  passengers,  the 
coachman  smiled  re- 
spectful approval  at 
while  he  wound  his 
horn  gaily,  and  off  we 
started  over  Bideford 
bridge  on  our  way  to  Clovelly.  Bideford  town 
lies  stretched  along  the  estuary  more  asleep 
than  awake.  The  busy  days  of  Sir  Francis 
Drake  have  long  departed.  A  few  small 
coasting-vessels  ride  by  their  cables  on  the 
great  iron  rings  in  the  side  of  the  stone  quay, 
in  place  of  the  many  galleons  just  home  from 
the  Spanish  Main  in  these  good  old  days.  The 
quaint  inns,  where  once  browned  sailors  drank 
and  boasted  of  their  deeds,  are  still  hoary  and 
picturesque,  unchanged  outwardly  since  the 
departure    of   the    former    rollicking   guests. 

66 


Clovelly 

They  now  depend  entirely  on  a  few  topers  for 
their  existence. 

Bideford  is  built  on  a  steep  incline,  so  up 
we  went,  too,  with  vigorous  horn-blowing  by 
the  guard,  until  the  last  fringe  of  cheap,  ugly 
villas  was  left  behind,  and  we  were  out  on 
the  broad  highroad  with  ten  miles  of  drive 
before  us.  Overhead  arched  a  lovely  sky,  and 
to  the  sea  tumbled  thick-wooded  cliffs.  The 
waters  of  the  bay  were  as  full  of  shades  and 
colours  as  an  orchid  leaf.  The  lazy  swells 
rolled  off  to  the  horizon,  where  Lundy's  Is- 
land, the  former  home  of  smugglers  and  out- 
laws, lay  as  innocent  as  a  pink  sea-shell, 
changing  its  colour  and  shape  to  a  violet 
cloud,  where  the  road  curves,  and  offered  us 
new  views  every  moment. 

The  whole  way  to  Clovelly  is  hallowed  by 
the  remembrance  of  Charles  Kingsley  and 
the  hero  of  his  great  novel,  "  Westward  Ho!  " 
Indeed  the  home  of  Amyas  Leigh  lay  in  this 
direction  from  Bideford,  and  as  we  drove, 
so  did  he  stalk  along  on  foot  to  visit  his  friend 
Will  Gary  at  Clovelly. 

The  roofs  of  many  country  residences  show 
among  the  trees.  Here  and  there  a  bit  of  the 
point  of  a  gable,  or  a  red  roof  just  peeping 
above  the  green  leaves.    Sheep,  so  big  and  fat 

67 


A^nong  English  Inns 

that  we  think  our  eyes  deceive  us,  are  feeding 
in  the  rich  green  fields  beyond  high,  luxuriant 
hedges.  The  road  dips  again  and  again  down 
slight  hills,  and  the  tinted  sea  and  deep-red 
cliffs  are  then  shut  off,  only  to  appear  again 
in  new  colours. 

Finally,  at  a  spot  among  tall,  thick  trees, 
we  stop  without  warning,  and  the  driver  an- 
nounces that  our  journey  is  at  an  end.  There 
is  no  house  or  village;  a  barn  at  the  top  of 
the  hill,  a  few  seafaring  men  lounging  about 
a  mile-stone,  and  a  steep  woodland  path  lead- 
ing apparently  nowhere,  is  all  we  can  see. 
The  Invalid  protests,  but  the  rest  of  us,  more 
obedient  to  the  driver's  command,  climb  down 
from  our  perch.  We  are  then  so  much  ab- 
sorbed by  the  difficulties  of  the  slipping  and 
sliding  descent  that,  before  we  have  time  to 
make  any  comment,  by  a  sudden  turn  the 
green  balconies,  the  funny  little  bay-windows, 
and  jumble  of  toy  houses  buried  among  flow- 
ers and  foliage,  announce  to  us  that  we  are  in 
one  of  the  most  noted  villages  of  England. 

It  hangs  there  at  our  feet,  crowded  in  be- 
tween high  banks  of  dark  green,  zigzagging 
down  the  narrow  bed  of  a  former  stream  to 
the  huge,  liquid,  opal  sea.  It  has  the  prosaic 
name  of  Hartland  Bay,  but  "  it  certainly  is 

68 


Clovelly 

like  a  jewel  to-night,"  declares  the  Matron. 
"  The  clouds  above  us  are  models  for  poster 
artists,  with  their  gay  hues  and  dark,  decided 
outlines." 

If,  in  the  picture  before  us,  any  variety  was 
wanting,  it  was  supplied  by  the  red  sails  of 
the  fishing-boats  slowly  rocking  to  and  fro 
on  the  glassy  water;  or  by  the  sturdy  little 
donkeys  who  were  picking  their  way  from 
side  to  side  down  the  broad  cobble-paved 
steps  of  the  street,  bearing  our  bags  and 
bundles  before  us  to  the  door  of  the  New 
Inn. 

When  we  told  our  names  to  the  hostess,  the 
wisdom  of  sending  a  telegram  several  days 
before  our  advent  was  made  manifest.  In- 
stead of  being  packed  away  in  the  large  and 
ugly  Annex,  we  had  the  original  ancient  min- 
iature New  Inn  quite  to  ourselves. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  got  into  my  own  doll- 
house,"  said  Polly,  as  she  mounted  the  low 
step  into  the  bay-window,  and,  seating  herself 
there,  proceeded  to  fill  its  space  entirely. 

It  is  a  doll's  inn,  but  so  perfectly  propor- 
tioned that  we  had  decided  that,  were  it  pos- 
sible to  nibble  some  of  the  wonderful  Wonder- 
land mushroom  on  the  proper  side,  we  should 
be  in  a  palatial  dwelling.    We  have  none  of 

69 


Among  English  Inns 

Alice's  specific  on  hand,  so  we  remain  big  and 
clumsy,  and  look  with  anxiety  at  the  wealth 
of  breakable  objects  with  which  our  little 
sitting-room  is  encumbered.  There  are  tables 
laden  down  with  shepherdesses  and  cupids, 
more  or  less  maimed;  on  the  walls  the  china 
plates  hang  thick,  and  the  mantel-shelf  is  lit- 
tered with  vases,  great,  small,  and  of  middling 
size,  while  in  every  nook  and  corner,  wher- 
ever there  is  a  vacant  spot,  are  flowered  can- 
dlesticks. 

There  are  four  bedrooms  in  the  little  house, 
whose  closed  doors  are  defended  from  in- 
truders by  huge  wooden  latches,  quite  out  of 
proportion  to  the  possible  danger  of  thieves. 
Low,  long  lattice  casements,  and  a  staircase 
that  a  tall  man  could  go  down  with  one  step, 
we  have  also  in  our  tiny  inn.  The  Invalid's 
bedroom  looks  seaward,  and  into  her  window 
two  bold  roses  peep;  they  climb  up  over  the 
roof  of  the  next  house,  and  nod  and  bow 
against  the  pane,  for  in  Clovelly  the  windows 
of  the  second  story  of  the  house,  the  next  high- 
est up  on  the  street,  get  a  clean  view  over  the 
lower  chimneys. 

While  looking  at  these  clustering  roses,  we 
found  the  new  moon  gazing  at  us.  The  sky, 
the  sea,  the  cliflfs,  and  all  the  beauties  of  Clo- 

70 


Clovelly 

velly  were  doing  their  best  to  enchant  our 
senses. 

The  perpendicular  towns  so  common  on 
many  parts  of  the  Continent,  have  no  more 
picturesque  qualities  than  this  little  hamlet. 
There  are  here  the  same  unawaited  flights  of 
steps,  unexpected  back  courts,  blind  alleys, 
and  mysterious  passages  under  arches  and 
through  houses;  but  there  are  here  none  of 
the  malodorous  horrors  and  dirt  of  the  Con- 
tinental villages.  Clovelly  may  have  had  in 
Charles  Kingsley's  day  an  ancient  and  fish- 
like odour,  for  he  mentions  the  smells  in  one 
of  his  letters  to  his  wife,  but  to-day  Clovelly 
is  swept  and  garnished  in  every  nook  and  cor- 
ner, and  the  back  gardens  blossom  and  over- 
flow with  every  kind  of  flower,  painted  gaud- 
ier by  the  soft  sea  air.  The  falling,  twisting 
street  is  a  riot  of  bloom  from  top  to  bot- 
tom. Tall  fuchsias  and  great  purple  clematis 
fight  with  the  roses  for  mastery  to  the  very 
chimney-tops.  The  window-ledge  boxes  fling 
over  trailing  vines,  and  are  gay  with  geranium 
and  petunia,  while  pots  of  flowering  plants 
adorn  each  one  of  the  queer  little  porches,  and 
the  brilliant  nasturtiums  crowd  each  other  to 
stare  over  the  walls  of  the  tiny  gardens. 

Every  house  is  small  in  Clovelly  but  the 
71 


Among  English  Inns 

Annex  to  the  New  Inn,  and  that  would  not  be 
called  large  in  any  other  town.  Although  it 
has  been  lately  built,  the  vines  are  doing  their 
best  to  hide  whatever  there  is  ugly  about  it. 
All  the  other  cottages  well  suit  the  little  white 
wedge  made  by  the  village  in  the  dark  hill- 
side. Down  by  the  water's  edge  is  a  small 
pier,  winding  itself  like  a  curved  arm  about 
the  gaily  painted  fishing-boats  which  come 
to  be  sheltered  there  at  night.  There  is  a 
diminutive  lighthouse  at  the  point  of  this'pier, 
and  the  sea-wall,  raised  along  one  side  of  it, 
is  draped  with  the  rich  brown  seaweed,  an 
ornament  furnished  by  nature  that  blends  with 
the  dark  red  nets  of  the  fishermen. 

The  pier  follows  a  natural  formation  of 
rock,  which  is  probably  the  reason  for  the 
existence  of  a  village  in  this  strange  precip- 
itous glen.  It  is  the  very  best  place  for  loung- 
ing away  the  long,  pleasant  twilight;  for 
gazing  out  around  the  tall  neighbouring  head- 
lands on  to  the  waters  of  Bristol  Channel,  and 
watching  the  lights  come  out  slowly  in  the 
village  hanging  above. 

Along  the  pebbly  beach  are  a  few  houses 
looking  like  escaped  Italian  villas,  their  green 
balconies    hanging    over    the    water's    edge. 


72 


Clovelly 

There  is  down  here  a  stout  ruin  of  an  early 
Roman  tower,  and  the  Red  Lion  Inn. 

A  part  of  this  sober  old  hostelry  was  the 
birthplace  of  the  sailor,  Salvation  Yeo,  given 
immortal  fame  in  the  novel  of  "  Westward 
Ho!  "  and  always  the  home  of  his  mother, 
whom  Kingsley  makes  describe  her  wander- 
ing seaman  of  a  son  as: 

"  A  tall  man,  and  black,  and  sweareth  awful 
in  his  talk,  the  Lord  forgive  him!  " 

Here  along  the  side  of  the  Red  Lion  the 
sturdy  Clovelly  sailormen  lounge  after  their 
work  is  done,  and  it  is  probably  on  one  of 
these  benches  that  Charles  Kingsley  spent  so 
many  hours  of  his  early  youth,  listening  to 
yarns  and  learning  sea-lore.  Never  was  a 
better  spot  on  earth  devised  in  which  to  rear 
a  poet  and  novelist!  All  the  pleasure  he  en- 
joyed here  during  the  long  and  lovely  Clo- 
velly twilights,  Charles  Kingsley  has  given 
back  to  the  world  in  his  writings. 

There  is  another  lookout  above  the  beach, 
reached  by  crooked  stairs  from  the  harbour. 
Here  more  of  the  sailors  gossip  the  hours 
away,  and  here  the  Invalid  and  the  Matron, 
the  first  evening  of  our  arrival,  secured  the 
confidences  of  the  most  friendly  among  them. 
The  acquaintance  began  with  an  ancient  mari- 

73 


Among  English  Inns 

ner,  who  persisted  in  speaking  of  himself  as 
a  foreigner,  although  he  had  lived  fifty  years 
in  Clovelly  and  was  married  to  a  Clovelly 
woman.  He  was  Irish  by  birth,  and  it  amused 
our  American  fancy  very  much  to  have  him  so 
persistent  in  claiming  to  be  foreign.  The 
Matron  returned  from  this  first  evening's  chat 
with  a  stirring  tale  about  the  first,  last,  and 
only  horses  ever  seen  on  Clovelly  Street.  They 
appeared  in  the  ancient  Irish  mariner's  young 
days.  An  ignorant  and  reckless  postboy  at- 
tempted to  drive  a  bridal  couple  to  the  door 
of  the  New  Inn,  with  such  disastrous  results 
that  the  whole  male  population  of  the  village 
was  called  upon  to  save  the  horses  from  de- 
struction and  to  keep  the  chaise  from  rolling 
down  into  the  sea.  This  they  did  by  clinging 
to  the  wheels,  and  turning  the  horses  sidewise 
on  the  broad  steps  of  the  street,  at  the  peril 
of  their  lives.  Fortunately  the  incident  hap- 
pened late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  men 
had  come  back  from  the  boats.  Our  Irish- 
man was  among  the  rescuing  crew. 

The  landlord  of  Clovelly  is  Mr.  Hamlin, 
who  lives  in  Clovelly  Court,  close  to  the  top 
of  the  village.  The  estate  has  descended  to 
him  through  the  marriage  of  one  of  his  an- 
cestors with  the  Cary  family,  which  included 

74 


Clovelly 

among  its  members  the  Will  Gary  of  Kings- 
ley's  novel.  Of  Sir  John  Gary,  founder  of 
the  family  and  a  judge  in  the  time  of  Henry 
VI.,  a  gossipy  chronicle  says:  "He  was 
placed  in  a  high  and  spacious  orb,  where  he 
scattered  about  the  rays  of  justice  with  great 
splendour." 

This  extraordinary  power,  however,  did 
not  prevent  the  good  judge  from  being  exiled 
during  those  troublous  times.  His  confiscated 
estates  were  later  returned  to  a  son.  At  Glo- 
velly  Gourt  lived  Will  Gary.  Here  within 
the  park  gates  still  stands  the  church  where 
Gharles  Kingsley's  father  was  vicar.  In  Glo- 
velly  park  rises  a  wonderful  high  cliff,  mount- 
ing three  hundred  feet  above  the  pebbly  beach 
and  bearing  the  attractive  name  of  Gallantry 
Bower.  From  among  the  park's  trees  we 
looked  out  upon  the  roofs  of  the  village,  that 
seemingly  push  one  another  down-hill  like 
naughty  children;  then  out  beyond  the  jut- 
ting Hartland  point  we  saw  a  dim  line  which 
they  told  us  was  the  coast  of  Wales,  and  across 
the  tops  of  the  village  houses  there  came  into 
view  the  deep  green  wood  that  rises  high  on 
the  opposite  hillside.  Along  this  way  runs 
the  Hobby  drive,  a  fine,  winding  road  built 
by  the  Hamlins,  and  for  which  every  visitor 

75 


Among  English  Inns 

to  Clovelly  owes  them  hearty  thanks.  In  the 
whole  world  there  is  no  road  affording  more 
truly  lovely  views  of  land  or  sea. 

The  Matron  says  that  she  strongly  suspects 
the  artistic  sails  of  Devon  boats  (they  are  of 
the  same  red  colour  as  the  Devon  soil  of  the 
cliffs)  originated  in  the  times  when  many  lit- 
tle casks  of  good  French  brandy  rolled  ashore 
under  the  shelter  of  Gallantry  Bower,  and 
found  there  proper  gallants  to  receive  the 
cargo.  The  sentimental  Invalid  is  very  un- 
willing to  believe  that  this  charming  spot  was 
ever  used  for  other  than  romantic  purposes, 
but  unfortunately,  both  history  and  tradition 
whisper  that  all  the  riches  of  this  coast  were 
not  caught  with  the  herring. 

The  glory  of  the  New  Inn  Annex  is  the 
dining-room;  here  the  guest  not  only  feasts 
upon  fresh  herring,  sweet  and  tender,  but  his 
eyes  are  edified  with  much  blue  china  and 
more  hammered  brass.  I  disdain  to  repeat 
Polly's  insulting  remarks  about  their  artistic 
merits  or  her  doubts  of  their  antiquity.  Our 
delighted  eyes  behold  overhead  the  entwined 
flags  of  England  and  America  frescoed  on  the 
ceiling  with  striking  truth  to  nature,  while 
under  their  gorgeous  folds  sit  the  Lion  and 
the    Eagle,    smiling    broadly    down    on    the 

76 


Clovelly 

guests.  For  those  diners  who  choose  to  crane 
their  necks  between  the  courses,  there  is  a 
poem  painted  on  the  ceiling  with  as  many 
stanzas  as  the  old-time  ballad;  I  venture  to 
quote  only  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  this 
inspired  lay: 

I. 

"  Let  parents  be  parental, 

Think  of  children  night  and  day. 
And  the  children  be  respectful, 
To  their  parents  far  away. 

IX. 

"  Our  foes  we  need  not  fear  them. 
If  hand  in  hand  we  go, 
We  want  no  wars  with  any  man 
As  onward  we  do  so. 

X. 

"  But  do  our  foes  assail  us. 

We  will  do  our  best  to  gain. 
With  our  children  standing  by  us 
Britannia  rules  the  main." 

Mine  host  of  the  New  Inn,  who  beguiles  his 
winter  hours  by  dallying  with  the  Muses,  is 
responsible   for  this   poetry. 

In   addition   to   its   richly  hung  walls   and 

77 


Among  English  Inns 

decorated  ceiling,  the  dining-room  has  still 
another  attraction  in  the  person  of  the  chief 
waitress,  a  young  woman  very  efficient  in  her 
calling,  blessed  with  a  sweet  voice,  attentive, 
willing,  and  amiable. 

Her  fame  has  spread  far  and  near  as  the 
Beauty  of  Clovelly.  A  mass  of  very  blond 
hair,  in  strong  contrast  with  her  black  eye- 
brows and  eyelashes,  appears  to  be  the  chief 
reason  for  which  this  title  has  been  bestowed. 
Her  features  are  by  no  means  beautiful,  nor 
is  her  complexion  faultless.  Polly  says  that 
at  least  her  peculiar  charms  are  useful  as  pro- 
moting conversation,  for,  after  she  has  been 
seen,  every  visitor  spends  the  leisure  hours 
discussing  how  much  of  her  hair  is  real,  and 
whether  its  colour  is  artificial.  One  of  the 
numerous  old  village  gossips,  whom  the  Ma- 
tron has  interviewed,  says  that  the  girl  always 
had  the  same  mass  of  wonderful  hair  even 
when  she  was  a  small  child.  Peroxide  can- 
not be  a  convenient  beautifier  here  in  Clo- 
velly, where  the  entire  village  supply  of  drugs 
would  not  fill  a  market-basket.  The  Beauty 
is  a  niece  of  the  landlady,  and  does  not  seem 
at  all  disturbed,  or  even  spoilt,  by  her  peculiar 
celebrity,  which  is  so  wide  that  the  summer 


78 


Clovelly 

trippers  gather  in  crowds  about  the  inn  to 
stare  at  her. 

Against  these  same  trippers  the  ire  of  the 
village  gossips  is  fierce  and  fiery.  From  the 
coast  towns  they  come  by  the  boat-load  to  see 
the  wedge-like  village,  and  try  to  see  it  so 
thoroughly  that  not  only  do  these  strangers 
tramp  into  the  back  gardens  and  peer  into 
the  windows  while  the  good  cottagers  are 
eating,  but  one  old  lady  told  the  Invalid  that 
she  had  once  caught  two  busybodies  just  as 
they  were  about  to  look  into  her  cooking-pots 
on  the  kitchen  stove.  We  were  not  in  Clovelly 
at  the  time  of  any  of  these  invasions,  but  the 
numerous  tea-room  signs  on  many  small 
houses  bear  testimony  to  how  much  refresh- 
ment must  be  sold  here  on  such  occasions. 

Single  blessedness  is  not  the  fashion  in  Clo- 
velly. On  the  lookout  bench  at  evening  the 
village  bachelor  becomes  the  butt  of  all  his 
comrades'  chafif.  At  the  time  of  our  visit 
there  was  but  one  of  these  despised  single 
creatures  in  Clovelly.  This  we  inferred  from 
the  jokes  thrown  headlong  at  one  man,  who 
held  his  own  boldly  for  a  time,  until  at  last, 
overcome  by  twitting  sarcasms  about  his 
wealth  and  beauty,  he  fled  ignominiously  to 
his   solitary  fireside.     We  were   inclined   to 

79 


Among  English  Inns 

agree  with  the  ancient  mariner,  who  confi- 
dentially whispered  to  the  Matron: 

"  That  man'U  be  married  inside  six 
month." 

Children  are  the  only  human  beings  who 
dare  to  run  down  Clovelly  streets.  They  clat- 
ter along  with  so  much  noise  against  the  cob- 
ble that  the  Matron  insists  that  their  English 
shoes  are  wooden.  They  begin  to  troop  up 
and  down  before  six  o'clock,  and  rattle  up 
and  down  until  the  school-bell  calls  the  flock 
to  lessons.  The  Matron  is  very  fussy  about 
being  disturbed  early  in  the  morning.  That 
others  have  shared  her  views,  we  find  from 
the  visitors'  book,  where  a  poetic  genius  has 
complained: 

*'  Although  in  Devon  'tis  almost  heaven, 
Down  Clovelly  streets  is  the  sound  of  feet 
Not  of  angels,  and  not  bare.'" 

We  had  wandered  up  and  down  the  steep 
streets  in  and  out  through  every  conceivable 
quaint  passage,  talked  to  all  the  friendly  vil- 
lagers, and  admired  the  adorable  flowers, 
when  at  last  we  gathered  on  the  second  even- 
ing in  our  sitting-room,  among  the  broken- 
nosed    shepherdesses    and    the    cupids    with 

80 


Clovelly 

cracked  hearts,  to  decide  on  our  future  plans. 
We  had  explored  the  neighbouring  country 
to  discover  the  old  Roman  road,  gazed  upon 
the  ancient  British  earthworks,  and  revelled 
in  the  walk  along  the  Hobby  drive.  Nothing 
was  left  undone  which  a  proper  tourist  should 
do  in  this  unique  spot,  except,  perhaps,  a  sail 
to  Lundy's  Island.  That  is  a  perilous  voyage 
for  seasick  women,  and  we  willingly  per- 
suaded ourselves  that  Lundy's  Island  looked 
better  from  a  distance.  Had  there  been  a 
drag  going  between  Clovelly  and  Ilfracombe, 
the  charm  of  the  enchanting  scenery  would 
have  decided  us  at  once  to  take  that  route, 
but,  as  it  sometimes  happens,  we  were  not  for- 
tunate enough  to  find  a  party  going,  and  the 
expense  of  hiring  such  a  conveyance  was  too 
great  for  our  purses. 

The  way  to  Derbyshire  is  a  longer  journey 
than  we  cared  to  take  without  a  break,  there- 
fore, after  much  discussion,  Evesham  was 
decided  as  a  resting-place.  That  town  lies 
in  the  land  where  the  peaceful  river  Avon 
waters  useful  market-gardens,  and  orchards 
of  plum-trees  thrive  under  the  lee  of  that 
pastoral  range  called  the  Cotswold  Hills.  A 
welcome  telegram  had  announced  the  recov- 
ery of  Jumbo,  and  the  bag's  safe  arrival  in 

8i 


Among  English  Inns 

the  cloak-room  at  Bideford  station.  We 
promptly  hurried  off  another  wire  (Polly 
feels  so  English  when  she  says  "wire")  to 
Evesham  to  announce  our  coming  to  the 
landlady  of  a  sunny  old  farmhouse  that  looks 
down  over  a  rose-garden  upon  the  Avon  val- 
ley and  the  town  below. 

We  had  decided  not  to  try  a  real  inn  this 
time,  but  make  an  inn  for  ourselves.  The 
Crown,  the  chief  hotel  in  Evesham,  is  hud- 
dled down  in  the  centre  of  the  town,  while  at 
Clerk's  Hill  House  pet  garden  thrushes 
would  be  bursting  their  little  throats  with 
song  to  give  us  a  concert  at  dinner-time.  As 
we  bowled  along  on  our  return  to  Bideford, 
the  accomplished  coachman  played  for  us 
merry  and  appropriate  tunes.  He  drove  his 
four  horses  easily  with  one  hand,  while  with 
the  horn  he  held  in  the  other  he  wound  out 
a  continual  strain  of  melody.  The  sea  and 
cliffs  along  the  road  had  lost  the  soft  pastel 
shades  we  found  there  on  the  first  late  after- 
noon drive.  They  were  now  bold  blue,  red, 
and  vivid  green  in  the  sharp  morning  light. 

During  the  half-hour  wait  for  the  train, 
while  the  Matron  clasped  Jumbo  to  her  side, 
and  we  had  each  taken  a  peep  to  see  if  all 
our  valuables  were  still  safe  in  his  embrace, 

82 


Clovelly 

we  looked  into  the  room  at  the  Royal  Hotel 
where  Charles  Kingsley  wrote  the  greater 
portion  of  "Westward  Ho!"  The  hotel  is 
beside  the  station,  and  was  the  house  described 
by  Kingsley  as  that  of  Rose  Saltern's  father. 
In  the  drawing-room,  where  the  author  wrote 
part,  if  not  all,  of  his  noted  novel,  remains  a 
fine  Elizabetlian  stucco  ceiling.  It  is  dec- 
orated with  garlands,  birds,  fruits,  and  flowers, 
coloured  by  artists  who  were  brought  from 
Italy  by  the  merchant  prince  who  lived  in  this 
'house  during  the  time  of  Sir  Francis  Drake. 


83 


CHAPTER    IV 

clerk's  hill  farm 

Evesham 

shall  not  lack  variety  on 
our   journey    this    morn- 
ing,"   announced    Polly, 
when  she  came  back  from  the 


0^^^  ticket  -  office.  "  We  change 
**  three  times  between  Bideford 
and  Evesham,  and  unless  we 
race  after  our  luggage  at  each  change,  we 
shall  surely  share  the  fate  of  a  young  English 
friend,  who  once  confidentially  told  me  she 
never  expected  to  see  her  trunk  for  three  days 
after  starting,  if  she  had  changes  to  make  on 
her  journey.  If  her  luggage  appeared  some 
time  during  the  week,  she  was  satisfied.  But 
we  want  ours  to  be  in  Evesham  when  we  step 
out  there  on  the  platform." 

"  But  if  the  trunks  are  labelled  they  will 
be  all  right,"  said  the  innocent  Matron. 

84 


Clerk:  s  Hill  Farm 

"  And  the  Matron  pretends  she  has  trav- 
elled!" sighed  Polly,  holding  up  her  hands. 

Everything  was  labelled  and  put  in  the 
van,  excepting,  always,  wide-mouthed  Jumbo. 
The  Invalid  even  wanted  him  banished.  She 
says  she  refuses  to  acquire  the  European  habit 
of  stuffing  the  railroad  carriage  so  full  of  per- 
sonal belongings  that  she  cannot  be  comfort- 
able herself. 

The  platform  at  Exeter  is  a  scene  of  wild 
confusion  when  we  jump  out  to  look  after  the 
luncheon-basket  boy.  One  or  two  of  these 
youths  are  in  sight,  their  arms  laden  down 
with  square  baskets,  none  of  which  are  evi- 
dently for  us,  as  the  boys  pay  not  the  slightest 
heed  to  our  calls,  but  proceed  to  unload  their 
wares  on  other  wildly  gesticulating  passen- 
gers. Every  woman,  and  several  men,  who 
passed  our  carriage,  asked  us  if  this  train  went 
to  such  unknown  places  that  we  became 
alarmed  for  our  own  safety.  The  only  official 
in  sight  was  pursued  by  a  bunch  of  clamouring 
travellers,  and  Polly  started  to  add  one  more 
to  the  throng,  when  we  were  partially  con- 
vinced WT  were  in  the  right  carriage  by  an  old 
lady.  She  assured  us  that  she  had  asked  seven 
porters  and  twenty-seven  passengers  if  this 
train  was  for  Templecombe,  and,  as  they  all 

85 


Among  English  Inns 

said  "  Yes,"  she  thought  we  were  safe  to  re- 
main where  we  were.  She  further  added  to 
our  confidence  by  joining  us. 

Polly  then  pursued  a  luncheon  boy  through 
a  forest  of  weeping  farewells,  and  captured 
two  baskets  intended  for  somebody  else. 

Considering  the  size  of  their  country  and 
the  exceeding  cheapness  of  telegraphic  com- 
munication, the  English  are  the  most  incon- 
solable of  people  when  the  cruel  railway  tears 
them  apart.  Half  the  platform  of  every  pro- 
vincial station  is  given  over  to  groups  of  in- 
habitants who  have  come  to  speed  a  parting 
guest  or  relative  who  probably  needs  help 
with  her  luggage,  though  the  friends  usually 
come,  not  to  help,  but  to  weep.  It  is  etiquette 
for  the  departing  traveller  to  hang  out  of  the 
carriage  door,  embracing  each  sorrowing 
friend  at  intervals,  and  then  to  wave  a  hand- 
kerchief as  long  as  the  station  remains  In  sight. 
After  these  exhausting  efforts,  she  usually 
sinks  overcome  on  the  cushions  and  falls  to 
eating,  no  matter  what  the  hour  be. 

So  we,  too,  fell  on  our  luncheon,  because 
the  Matron  says  that,  ''while  eating  delicious 
cold  chicken,  she  may  dream  of  the  baked 
beans  of  her  native  buffet  car."  Polly  and 
I  joined  forces  at  Templecombe  in  an  exciting 

86 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

race  for  porters.  We  nearly  lost  our  lives  by 
being  run  down  by  the  platform  baggage- 
trucks  while  trying  to  wade  in  and  out  of  a 
pack  of  hounds  (most  unwilling  travellers), 
who  were  being  transported  to  some  distant 
kennels  along  our  line. 

"  I  thought  you  never  would  get  back 
alive,"  said  the  Invalid,  who  was  hanging,  in 
true  English  fashion,  half  out  of  a  carriage 
window  she  and  the  Matron  had  secured,  for 
they  had  watched  our  struggles  with  four 
small  trunks  and  two  big  porters. 

At  last,  after  we  had  seen  everything  shut 
up  in  the  van,  and  determined  how  near  that 
particular  van  was  to  our  carriage,  we  fell 
panting  into  the  carriage,  and  the  engine,  with 
a  feeble  toot,  drew  us  away  into  a  fair  country 
of  meadow-lands,  and  past  Bath  the  Famous, 
where  the  houses  seem  running  down-hill  to 
the  Pump  Gardens  like  the  belles  and  beaux 
of  King  George's  time. 

From  Bath  our  way  branched  up  north, 
through  Gloucester  to  Cheltenham,  where 
again  we  changed.  Luckily  no  homesick 
canines  were  here  in  the  way,  and  a  comfort- 
able old  grandfather  of  a  porter  quieted  our 
nervous  haste  by  telling  us  that  the  train  for 
Evesham  would  not  be  along  for  half  an  hour. 

87 


Among  English  Inns 

After  leaving  Cheltenham,  we  saw  the  peaks 
of  Great  Malvern  and  the  low,  long  ridges 
of  the  Cotswolds.  Then  appeared  pretty 
little  stations  among  flower-beds,  great 
stretches  of  market-gardens,  and  soon  we 
were  in  Evesham ;    so  also  was  our  luggage. 

Our  chosen  stopping-place  rather  disap- 
pointed us  at  first.  The  High  Street,  which 
leads  from  the  station,  has  evolved  from  a 
market-place  and  highway  combined  into  a 
town  thoroughfare.  It  is  broad,  it  is  common- 
place, and  lined  with  the  conventional  Eng- 
lish brick  houses,  but  the  High  Street  luckily 
does  not  go  on  for  ever,  and  when  it  twists 
itself  down  to  the  river  between  many  ancient 
houses,  and  takes  the  new  name  of  Bridge 
Street,  the  first  sad  impression  of  this  begin- 
ning of  Evesham  is  dissipated.  Our  way  to 
the  Crown  Inn  lies  down  this  narrow  way 
between  the  shops.  Here  we  can  hardly  get 
the  Invalid  along,  so  intent  is  she  on  staring 
at  the  queer  old  lopsided  Booth  Hall,  which 
occupies  the  centre  of  the  open  space  at  the 
beginning  of  the  contracted  street,  and  an 
antiquated  old  passageway  that  makes  a  splen- 
did frame  for  the  porch  of  All  Saints'  Church. 

"  It  is  an  old  town,  after  all,  isn't  it?  "  grace- 
fully acknowledges  the  Invalid. 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

The  courtyard  of  the  Crown  opens  out 
of  the  street  just  where  the  hill  is  steepest.  It 
is  an  inn  blessed  with  possibilities  which  are 
completely  lost,  for  want  of  a  tidy  mistress 
and  a  wide-awake  master.  The  Crown  is  old 
and  it  is  well  built,  and  through  the  archway 
to  the  stable-yard  we  caught  a  fascinating 
glimpse  of  the  Bell  Tower  rising  above  old 
monastery  meadows. 

"  I  wonder  if  this  place  is  inhabited,"  said 
Polly. 

We  wandered  into  the  open  inn  door  and 
found  our  way  to  the  cofifee-room,  where 
Polly  jerked  the  bell  violently  for  several 
moments  without  any  response.  At  last,  in 
reply  to  an  extra  violent  long  ring,  a  more 
or  less  untidy  waiter  appeared.  She  asked 
him  if  there  was  no  message  for  us  in  such 
sharp  tones  that  he  started  ofif  on  a  trot,  and 
soon  brought  back  the  anticipated  note.  Polly, 
upon  reading  it,  found  that  we  could  not  get 
our  lodgings  until  the  morrow,  therefore 
should  be  obliged  to  put  up  at  the  inn.  Ofif 
trotted  the  waiter  again,  to  return  with  a 
pleasant  little  woman,  who  took  us  up  the 
rickety  stairs  to  palatial  sleeping-rooms.  My 
chamber  proved  to  be  fully  twenty-five  feet 
square,  with  a  style  of  furniture  and  bed-hang- 

89 


Among  English  Inns 

ings  that  made  me  expect  to  see  the  ghost  of 
an  eighteenth-century  belle  before  morning. 
The  deep  windows  looked  out  on  a  blooming 
garden  and  down  a  grassy  sweep  to  the  river. 
All  the  musty  smell  of  the  old  corridor  and 
stairway  was  left  where  we  found  it;  in  the 
great  room  sweet  air  blew  in  from  the  garden. 
We  got  a  very  decent  dinner  after  waiting  for 
it,  but  then,  waiting  is  good  for  the  appetite. 
The  table-cloth  was  not  exactly  spotless,  but 
every  one  in  the  house  proved  so  good-natured 
and  careless  that  we  had  not  the  courage  to 
complain.  Our  stay  was  to  be  but  one  night. 
The  Evesham  brass  band  was  blowing  forth 
invitingly  sweet  strains  in  the  Pleasure  Gar- 
dens across  the  Avon,  tempting  us  to  take  a 
twilight  stroll  down  the  steep  street  to  the 
broad  bridge  at  the  foot.  This  bridge  was 
built  about  fifty  years  ago  by  Henry  Work- 
man, Esq.,  to  replace  a  narrow  but  much 
more  picturesque  structure.  The  same  gen- 
tleman laid  out  the  Pleasure  Grounds,  where 
the  band  was  playing.  They  form  a  charm- 
ing promenade  along  the  river  bank,  and 
from  the  benches  for  loungers  placed  on  the 
smooth  lawns  there  is  a  fine  view  of  Evesham's 
crowning  glory,  the  Bell  Tower.  The  Avon 
flows  gently  rippling  past  under  the  bridge, 

90 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

and  is  broader  here  than  at  any  other  point 
near  Evesham.  Below  the  bridge  the  stream 
makes  a  sharp  bend  about  the  old  Abbey 
meadows,  while  above  it  the  sedge  grass 
grows  around  an  old  mill,  and  little  woody 
islands  divide  the  water.  On  either  side  of 
the  stream  the  hills  rise,  narrowing  the  valley. 

The  people  in  the  Pleasure  Grounds  were 
still  dancing  on  the  turf  to  the  music  of  the 
band  as  we  turned  homeward  to  our  Georgian 
beds.  This  furniture  made  Polly  happy,  even 
if  she  could  not  get  her  bell  answered.  She 
declares  she  loves  everything  Georgian,  even 
to  the  Georges  themselves,  and  her  extraor- 
dinary reason  is  that,  if  George  the  Third  had 
not  been  what  she  calls  "  An  obstinate  fool!  " 
(Polly  is  strong  in  her  language),  she  would 
only  have  been  able  to  enjoy  England  from 
a  colonial  standpoint. 

It  was  early  next  morning  when  we  started 
off  toward  our  new  lodgings  on  Clerk's  Hill. 
Our  landlady  wrote  that  she  would  be  ready 
to  receive  us  at  any  time  after  eight,  so  we  left 
the  inn  at  half-past  nine.  It  took  fully  half 
an  hour  to  get  our  bill  paid.  Every  one  at 
the  Crown  seemed  so  busy  doing  nothing. 
When  Polly,  the  treasurer,  had  disposed  of 
this  important  business,  she  indignantly  in- 

91 


Among  English  Inns 

formed  us  that  the  Crown  was  just  as  expen- 
sive as  any  other  country  hotel  in  England 
where  they  "  gave  us  service." 

"  Too  bad  such  a  delightful  old  place  isn't 
better  managed,"  was  the  Invalid's  farewell. 

We  wandered  about  looking  at  the  sights 
in  the  town  before  crossing  the  river  to  the 
country.    Clerk's  Hill  is  in  the  country. 

"  Let  us  first  go  through  that  passage  in  the 
corner  of  the  market-place  behind  the  dissi- 
pated old  Booth  Hall,"  said  the  Matron. 

"Dissipated?"  said  Polly.  "The  Booth 
Hall  is  only  rheumatic,  and  you  would  be 
rheumatic,  too,  if  you  had  been  standing  up 
for  four  hundred  years." 

The  Matron  took  no  notice  whatever  of 
Polly's  exception,  but  went  on  with  her  opin- 
ions. 

"  These  solid  ancient  English  buildings  all 
look  to  me,"  she  said,  "  as  though  they  had 
home-brewed  beer  for  breakfast,  and  fed  on 
roast  beef  every  day  in  the  week.  The  houses, 
the  rustics,  and  the  bulldogs  of  England  look 
equally  substantial   and  jolly." 

We  dived  through  the  archway  and  came 
out  into  the  churchyard,  where,  among 
the  grass-grown  graves,  rise  two  graceful 
churches.      Beyond,    clear    against    the    sky, 

92 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

stands  the  elegant  Bell  Tower,  the  only  rem- 
nant of  the  former  great  abbey.  Its  perfect 
proportions  are  made  more  graceful  by  lines 
of  perpendicular  ornamentation.  The  church- 
yard is  so  quiet,  so  shaded  by  the  tall  trees 
which  grow  about  two  houses  of  worship, 
that  there  could  be  no  more  ideal  resting- 
place  for  weary  souls.  The  sunshine  throws 
the  shadow  of  the  Bell  Tower  across  the 
graves,  and  the  sweet  bells  hanging  there  play 
quaint,  old-fashioned  tunes  to  mark  the  hours. 
Two  churches  —  one  dedicated  to  St.  Law- 
rence, the  other  to  All  Saints  —  were  built 
by  the  monks  of  the  old  abbey;  one  was  a 
chapel  for  pilgrims,  the  other  for  the  use  of 
the  townfolks.  For  many  years  after  the  sup- 
pression of  the  monasteries,  these  churches 
stood  bare,  neglected,  and  left  to  decay,  but 
they  have  now  been  carefully  restored  to  much 
of  their  ancient  beauty.  The  main  aisles  of 
the  great  abbey  church,  where  the  monks  sang 
matins  and  kings  prayed,  are  now  gardens  for 
the  townspeople  of  Evesham,  enclosed  in  the 
remnants  of  the  church  walls.  Of  the  great 
tower,  which  rose  into  the  sky  twice  the  height 
of  the  Bell  Tower,  nothing  now  remains,  not 
even  foundations.  The  carved  archway, 
which   formerly   led   into   the   chapter-house, 

93 


Among  English  Inns 

is  now  an  entrance  to  the  town  gardens.  Eve- 
sham Abbey  was  immensely  rich  and  power- 
ful, but  every  stick  and  stone  was  carried  off 
to  build  the  houses,  walls,  and  stables  for  miles 
around.  The  suppressed  abbey  was  let  out 
as  a  quarry  for  many  years  after  the  abbots 
were  driven  out  of  their  possessions. 

Not  only  did  the  abbots  of  Evesham  own 
the  tongue  of  land  which  the  bending  Avon 
takes  in  its  embrace,  where  acres  of  the  most 
fertile,  abundant  lands  lie  below  the  town, 
but  all  over  the  county  extensive  farms,  and 
the  tithe-barns,  which  are  still  standing  in 
many  places  to  tell  the  tale  of  enormous 
wealth.  The  vanished  abbey  saw  many  stir- 
ring scenes.  As  a  sanctuary  for  many  turbu- 
lent nobles,  it  was  generously  rewarded  for 
the  refuge  it  afforded.  It  existed  from  be- 
fore the  Norman  Conquest  until  Richard 
Cromwell  whispered  in  his  master's  willing 
ear  that  rich  abbeys  should  be  suppressed  for 
practical  reasons. 

Our  way  from  the  churchyard  led  us  out 
near  the  abbot's  gate-house  to  the  quaint  little 
building,  once  the  almonry,  where  the  monks 
distributed  their  alms  to  the  poor.  There  are 
many  charming  bits  left  within  this  tiny  old 
structure,  among  others  a  thirteenth-century 

94 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

fireplace,  carved  as  monks  could  carve  sucK 
things. 

Boat  Lane,  down  which  we  went  on  our 
way  to  our  new  lodging  between  market-gar- 
dens and  plum  orchards,  shows  traces  of  the 
old  wall  which  the  monks  stretched  across 
from  the  bend  of  the  river  on  one  side  to  the 
turn  on  the  other,  and  thus  cutting  ofif  a  good- 
sized  peninsula  from  the  townfolk  for  their 
own  use. 

"What,  ho!  for  the  ferry!"  sang  the 
Matron. 

"  This  costs  a  ha'penny,"  finished  Polly, 
which  is  the  fare  over  and  back.  A  rope, 
worked  by  a  very  small  boy,  pulls  the  flatboat 
across  the  river  to  the  pretty  ferry-house. 
Here  we  went  up  the  wooden  steps  to  the 
shore,  and  then  up  a  path  through  an  orchard, 
and  through  a  rose-garden  to  our  farmhouse 
lodging  on  the  steep  hillside. 

"  Our  luggage  has  come  around  by  land, 
I  suppose,"  said  the  Matron,  as  if  we  mean- 
time had  been  travelling  over  the  sea. 

We  voted  for  a  week  at  Evesham.  The 
Matron  desired  to  see  great  parks,  the  Invalid 
demanded  visits  to  ancient  churches,  Polly 
professed  a  weakness  for  quaint  villages,  and 
I   love   the   thrushes    and   the   grassy   lanes. 

95 


Among  English  Inns 

Then,  too,  clothes  must  be  washed  sometimes, 
and  these  too  rapid  hotel  laundry  cleanings 
had  left  our  garments  in  sorry  condition.  It 
was  the  prospect  of  a  week's  stay  which  had 
enticed  us  into  lodgings  where  we  could  have 
peace  and  quiet,  a  nice  little  maid  to  serve  us, 
and  give  Polly  a  chance  to  do  marketing,  a 
task  she  adores. 

"  I  used  to  draw  houses  just  like  this  on 
my  slate,"  declared  the  Matron,  when  she  first 
saw  the  simple  square  proportion  of  Clerk's 
Hill  farmhouse,  that  would  never  tax  the 
genius  of  the  artistic  small  boy.  It  was  unos- 
tentatious. Its  colour  was  light  yellow,  but 
it  had  behind  it  the  plumed  elms  of  the  green 
hillside,  and  in  front  a  sloping  wilderness  of 
roses,  red,  white,  yellow,  and  pink.  Below 
the  garden  lay  the  grassy  orchard,  and  still 
lower  were  the  tall  trees,  which  line  the  bank 
of  the  glistening  river  over  which  we  were 
ferried.  Floating  up  to  our  sitting-room 
windows  came  sounds  of  merriment  from  the 
boating  parties,  from  the  small  boys  fishing 
along  the  stream,  and  now  and  again  the  shrill 
whistle  of  the  little  toy  steamboat,  The  lAly, 
on  which  it  is  possible  to  go  several  miles  to 
Fladbury  and  return  for  the  extravagant  sum 
of  sixpence.     The  passing  of  The  Lily,  we 

96 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

found,  threw  the  large  family  at  the  ferry- 
house  into  a  fever  of  excitement  several  times 
a  day.  The  rope  w^hich  guides  the  ferry  from 
shore  to  shore  must  be  lowered,  and  The  Lily 
leaves  an  oily  trail;  both  of  these  features 
excited  the  indignation  of  the  numerous  small 
ferrymen  and  ferrywomen  who  work  the  boat. 
Our  farmhouse  could  not  have  been  less 
than  two  centuries  old,  and  it  might  have  been 
even  three.  The  charming  lattice  windows  at 
the  back  and  sides,  of  the  most  approved 
Tudor  pattern,  proved  this  fact.  On  the  front, 
alas!  they  had  been  changed  to  the  ugly  mod- 
ern sort  the  French  call  "  guillotine  windows." 
The  view  from  our  sitting-room  and  from 
my  bedroom  gave  upon  the  broad  plain  to 
the  Cotswold  Hill  beyond;  nearer,  the  red 
houses  of  the  town  gathered  about  the  Bell 
Tower,  and  the  great  clumps  of  feathery  elms 
dotting  the  meadows,  the  low,  dark  bunches 
of  green  we  knew  to  be  plum-trees,  made  the 
landscape  so  ideally  English  that  it  was  a  con- 
stant delight.  The  smell  of  the  heavy-laden 
rose-bushes,  the  concerts  we  got  early  and  late 
from  the  generous  song-birds  who  lived  in 
the  orchard,  would  have  been  quite  enough  to 
make  a  week  in  Evesham  an  enviable  treat, 
without  the   charm   of   the   many   delightful 

97 


Arnoiig  English  Inns 

excursions  possible  in  this  district  full  of  in- 
terest to  the  lover  of  nature  and  the  anti- 
quarian. Evesham  lies  within  a  network  of 
good  cycling  roads,  but  Evesham  also  boasts 
a  motor-car,  and  one,  too,  which  is  the  prop- 
erty of  a  young  gentleman  who  has  made 
electricity  his  study.  He  knows  every  lovely 
view,  every  ruined  abbey,  every  old  English 
church,  every  fine  park  and  charming  old  vil- 
lage within  fifty  miles,  and  he  takes  one  to 
see  them  at  a  charge  of  six  cents  a  mile.  This 
expense  divided  between  the  four  or  five  per- 
sons (a  number  the  motor-car  comfortably 
holds)  was  but  a  small  outlay  for  the  pleasure 
we  got  with  such  an  enthusiastic  conductor. 
There  was  no  worrying  about  tired  horses,  no 
discussion  as  to  the  number  of  miles  we  might 

go- 

The  walks  about  Evesham  are  over  paths 

leading   among   gardens    and   orchards,    and 

these  tramps  gave  us  more  delight  than  either 

motor-car  or  bicycle. 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  can't  walk  as  far  as  this 
at  home,"  complained  the  Matron. 

"  Cooler  air  and  better  paths,"  decided 
Polly,  and  the  Matron  meekly  said  no  more. 

To  Cropthorne,  the  first  village  which  won 
our  hearts,  the  walk  was  but  a  matter  of  three 

98 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

miles.    We  took  the  morning  for  a  stroll  there, 
going  nearly  all  the  way  through  groves  of 
plum-trees  laden  with  fragrant  fruit  or  fields 
of  the  running  dwarf  bean,  showing  gay  scar- 
let or  white  blossoms.     From  the  top  of  the 
ridge  behind  the  farmhouse,  a  hillside  where 
in  the  old  days  the  monks  had  great  vineyards, 
we    went    down    the   winding    paths    toward 
Breden    Hill,    a   member  of   the   Cotswolds, 
which  is  cut  off  from  the  family,  and  stretches 
verdant   and   shining  before   us   on   the   left. 
The  Cotswolds  were  behind  us  over  the  hill- 
top, and  Breden  Hill  looked  like  a  great,  lazy, 
green  animal  with  a  nice,  soft,  round  back 
as  we  walked  toward  it.     The  high  hills  of 
Malvern,  too,  stood  in  the  distance  behind  the 
woody   hollow   where   Cropthorne   lies   con- 
cealed.     We    turned    on    the    road,    leaving 
Breden  on  the  left,  and  suddenly  came  upon 
the   beautiful   little  village   through   a   thick 
avenue  of  trees  which  led  us  to  the  Norman 
church,  from  which  we  looked  down  Crop- 
thorne's  hilly  street.    Thatched  cottages  built 
of  white  clay  and  black  oak  beams ;  low  stone 
walls    topped    by   hedges;     gabled    porches; 
lattice  windows   open   to  sun   and   air,  with 
stiff  crimson  geraniums  in  pots  on  the  ledges; 
plumy   elm-trees,    and   a   glimpse   down   the 

93 


Among  English  Inns 

street  far  over  a  woody  country,  —  that  is 
Cropthorne  village.  Inside  its  church  are 
Norman  pillars  and  arches,  carved  pews  of 
the  thirteenth  century,  and  two  fine  monu- 
ments erected  in  memory  of  the  Dineley  fam- 
ily, who  owned  a  manor-house  not  very  dis- 
tant. On  the  first  of  these  the  good  knight 
and  his  lady  lie  recumbent  with  folded  hands, 
while  nineteen  children,  carved  in  high  relief, 
kneel  praying  around  the  pedestal.  The 
grandchildren,  of  which  there  are  also  sev- 
eral, are  indicated  by  smaller  figures  carved 
above  the  heads  of  their  kneeling  parents. 
On  the  second  monument,  dating  from  a 
generation  later,  the  knight  and  his  lady  kneel 
on  a  prie-d'ieu,  and  the  family  about  the  base 
of  the  monument  is  somevv^hat  less  numerous. 
In  all  of  these  carved  effigies  the  costume  of 
the  period  is  most  elaborately  reproduced. 
The  marble  is  even  painted,  the  better  to  rep- 
resent the  dress,  and  the  heraldic  designs  are 
coloured  and  profusely  ornamented  with 
gold.  The  long  inscription  full  of  historical 
and  mighty  names  over  the  older  tomb  ex- 
cited our  curiosity,  but  it  was  so  blurred  that 
we  could  only  distinguish  a  few  of  the  titles 
of  the  noble  relatives.  The  rich  armour  of  the 
recumbent  knight  and  the  dress  of  his  lady 

lOO 


CROPTHORNE     COTTAGES.  —  INTERIOR     OF     CROPTHORNE 
CHURCH 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

was  that  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  time/  while 
the  second  gentleman  and  his  wife  are  clad 
in  the  sober  garments  of  the  Puritan  regime. 
As  we  walked  down  Cropthorne  Street  on 
our  homeward  way,  among  the  lovely  and 
picturesque  little  cottages,  we  passed  a  line  of 
easels,  each  with  a  painter  behind  it,  perched 
up  on  the  side  off  the  road.  The  old  half- 
timber  houses  and  Breden  Hill  were  being 
immortalized  in  a  more  or  less  artistic  fashion. 

Another  morning  we  paid  our  sixpence, 
and  puffed  along  the  river  in  the  little  steam- 
boat to  Fladbury.  The  Avon  winds  on  its 
way  there  between  shady  banks,  takes  sudden 
twists  and  turns  past  farm  lands  and  old  mills 
hidden  among  rushes.  At  Fladbury  Weir  it 
stops.  We  then  left  the  little  boat  and  walked 
back  to  Evesham  by  the  road.  Fladbury  is 
quite  a  metropolis  compared  to  Cropthorne. 
We  had  lunch  there  at  a  little  inn  called  the 
Anchor,  where  an  electric  bulb  hanging  over 
the  table  called  forth  the  information,  given 
with  great  pride  by  the  tidy  maid,  that  "  Flad- 
bury was  far  ahead  of  Evesham  in  the  way  of 
lighting." 

Fladbury  is  also  on  the  railroad,  which  is 
not  always  the  case  with  most  of  the  pretty 
villages  hereabouts.    It  is  altogether  a  charm- 

lOI 


Among  English  Inns 

ing  place  with  an  individuality  quite  its  own. 
A  short  cut  across  the  fields  took  us  out  on 
the  road  in  front  of  the  estate  of  Fladbury's 
most  distinguished  neighbour,  the  Due  d'Or- 
leans.  We  stepped  over  a  stile  in  front  of  the 
half-French,  half-English  chateau  he  owns, 
just  in  time  to  interrupt  some  village  scandal, 
which  we  would  have  given  worlds  to  have 
heard  through  to  the  end.  An  old  country- 
man in  brown  corduroy,  leaning  on  his  spade, 
was  solemnly  saying  to  an  audience  of  one 
groom  on  horseback  and  a  younger  labourer: 

"  The  old  juke  he  come  riding  along  the 
road,  with  Madam  Somebodyruther  —  "  Just 
then  we  appeared.  The  voice  ceased,  nor  did 
it  resume  again  until  we  were  so  far  away  that 
we  heard  borne  upon  the  breeze,  "  Madam 
Somebodyruther,"  which  was  as  near  as  we 
ever  got  to  the  rustic  story  concerning  the 
French  duke. 

Wood  Norton  is  the  name  of  the  famous 
exile's  place.  The  lodge  gates  are  decorated 
with  the  monogram  of  the  royal  Louis,  —  the 
entwined  L  of  Fontainebleau  and  Versailles. 
The  little  lodge-house  is  decorated  with  fleurs- 
de-lys  cut  in  the  plaster.  A  fine  royal  crown 
is  carved  on  the  outside  chimney,  while  in 


1 02 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

strong  contrast  appear  good  solid  English 
thatched  cottages  clustering  near  the  gate. 

The  road  back  to  Evesham,  along  which 
runs  a  broad,  comfortable  foot-path,  skirts 
Green  Hill,  where  Simon  de  Montfort  fell 
in  the  decisive  battle  he  waged  against  royal 
power  in  1265,  in  the  month  of  August,  —  the 
very  month  in  which  we  were  walking  past 
the  battle-ground.  The  great  earl  had  spent 
the  night  at  the  abbey,  having  with  him  King 
Henry  the  Third,  whom  he  held  as  a  hostage. 
Simon  meant  to  fight  Prince  Edward  after 
he  had  joined  the  forces  led  by  his  son  near 
Kenilworth,  but  the  prince  fell  upon  the 
young  Simon  de  Montfort,  and,  after  routing 
him,  marched  quickly  to  Evesham,  forcing 
the  earl,  his  father,  into  battle  here  on  Green 
Hill.  Simon  de  Montfort  fell  fighting  des- 
perately for  the  liberties  of  England. 

In  the  manor-house  grounds  a  column  has 
been  erected  in  memory  of  this  stirring  event. 
The  great  earl's  body  was  cruelly  mutilated 
by  the  royal  followers,  but  the  main  fruits 
of  his  struggle,  the  desire  of  his  soul,  lives 
to-day  in  the  British  House  of  Commons. 

Another  day,  across  field  and  garden  land, 
we  took  the  shortest  way  to  Elmley  Castle, 
a  gem  of  a  village  nestling  at  the  foot  of 

103 


Among  English  Inns 

Breden  Hill.  It  still  preserves  the  same  char- 
acter it  had  when  Queen  Elizabeth  made  the 
visit  recorded  by  the  wonderfully  painted 
sign  hanging  in  front  of  the  village  inn. 
Upon  this  she  is  represented,  in  her  broad 
hoop  and  spreading  farthingale,  leading  a 
procession  of  lords  and  ladies  down  the  vil- 
lage street.  The  village  is  probably  a  little 
cleaner  to-day,  owing  to  more  advanced  the- 
ories, but  the  lords  of  Elmley  Castle,  who 
have  held  the  estate  since  the  time  of  Henry 
the  Seventh,  have  frowned  on  the  modern 
brick  villa,  and  have  kept  this  arcadian  nest 
unspoiled  through  all  these  centuries.  The 
church  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  in  the 
county,  and  the  interior  would  be  a  delight  to 
antiquarians,  without  the  fine  alabaster  effi- 
gies, which  excite  profound  admiration.  In 
the  churchyard  is  one  of  the  most  curious 
and  quaintest  of  carved  sun-dials. 

A  great  castle  stood  somewhere  here  on  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  but  it  was  destroyed  before 
the  present  mansion  came  into  existence  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  the  Seventh.  The  village  cot- 
tages were  probably  built  about  the  same  time, 
though  some  of  them  may  be  older,  and  the 
village  cross  itself  dates  back  so  far  that  no- 
body knows  just  when  it  was  erected. 

104 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

Two  Academy  pictures  lately  exhibited  have 
had  Elmley  Castle  as  a  background.  "  The 
Wandering  Musicians,"  which  was  exhibited 
in  1899,  has  the  village  cross,  and  another 
picture,  called  "  The  Dead  and  the  Living 
and  a  Life  to  Redeem,"  in  which  the  figures 
are  moving  about  the  old  sun-dial,  was  hung 
in  the  Academy  this  year.  All  around  the 
base  of  Breden  Hill  are  villages  which  de- 
serve a  visit;  quaint,  simple  old  places,  with 
ancient  churches,  picturesque  cottages,  and  a 
wealth  of  flowers.  There  is  Pershore,  with 
its  great  Early  English  church  and  stone 
bridge;  Wick  with  its  old-world  houses;  and 
Beckford  with  its  wonderful  box  avenue. 

The  expedition  to  Elmley  Castle  ended  our 
long  walks.  We  did  the  rest  of  our  exploring 
in  the  motor-car.  Wickhampton,  where  Pe- 
nelope Washington  lies  buried  under  a  stone 
bearing  a  coat  of  arms  of  the  stars  and  stripes, 
is  quite  within  walking  distance,  but  it  is  also 
on  the  way  to  Broadway.  Turning  aside  from 
the  highway  we  stopped  at  a  little  church  and 
manor-house  where  had  dwelt  the  young 
cousin  of  George  Washington.  Her  mother 
had  married  in  second  nuptials  into  the 
Sandys  family,  and  she  came  to  live  in  the 
comfortable,    homelike    manor-house,    which 

105 


Among  English  Inns 

with  its  dove-cote  and  moat,  stands  so  near  the 
dear  little  church  where  she  sleeps  her  last 
sleep.  The  house  is  half-timbered  black  and 
white,  in  the  style  so  popular  in  Queen  Eliza- 
beth's time.  The  great  oak  beams  are  warped 
here  and  there  by  age,  but  it  is  withal  so 
bright,  so  sunny,  with  its  cheerful  garden  and 
pleasant  lawn,  that  you  can  only  fancy  happi- 
ness in  such  an  abode. 

Penelope  Washington's  grave  in  the  church 
is  inside  the  chancel  rail,  and  is  placed  at  the 
foot  of  two  really  splendid  monuments  erected 
to  the  memory  of  members  of  the  Sandys 
family.  The  fine  effigies  have  escaped  all 
mutilation,  the  gilt  paint  on  the  canopies  has 
defied  the  ravages  of  time,  and  the  colours 
of  the  heraldic  shields  are  as  fresh  as  when 
they  were  first  put  on.  The  old  church  itself, 
with  the  narrow  choir  arch,  the  queer  little 
pulpit,  and  old  pews,  looks  just  as  it  did  when 
gentle  Penelope  came  here  with  her  mother 
to  pray. 

Broadway  is  five  miles  from  Evesham,  built 
on  the  side  of  the  Cotswolds,  and  has  more 
of  the  dignity  of  a  very  small  town  than  the 
simple  quality  of  a  village.  It  is  the  resort 
of  artists,  writers,  and  musicians.  Abbey 
lived  here  for  some  time,  and  the  backgrounds 

1 06 


HOME     OF     PENELOPE     WASHINGTON.  —  LAST     REST- 
ING-PLACE   OF    PENELOPE    WASHINGTON 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

of  some  of  his  illustrations  were  plainly  taken 
from  sketches  made  in  this  village.  Every 
one  ought  to  trip  around  Broadway  in  flow- 
ered brocade  and  quilted  petticoats.  The 
houses  are  all  Tudor,  and  there  are  but  few 
gardens  on  the  street.  The  Lygon  Arms  (the 
Broadway  inn)  is  a  small  mansion.  Mine 
host,  the  picture  of  a  rosy  country  squire, 
showed  us  all  over  the  charming  old  hos- 
telry. Polly's  incredulity  as  to  the  age  of 
the  inn  as  an  inn  almost  caused  disaster, 
and  the  Invalid's  ire  when  Cromwell's  bed- 
room was  pointed  out  was  a  close  second. 

"What  was  Cromwell  doing  here?  He 
should  have  been  chasing  kings,"  she  broke 
out,  though  why  Cromwell  should  not  have 
rested  himself  for  pleasure  In  this  very  com- 
fortable big  chamber,  none  of  us  except  the 
Invalid  knew,  but  she  is  intimate  with  his- 
torical characters,  and  the  rest  of  us  are  just  a 
trifle  ignorant,  so  we  never  dispute  her,  for 
fear  of  being  vanquished. 

Mary  Anderson  lives  in  Broadway,  and 
owns  a  charming  house  at  the  top  of  the  vil- 
lage street,  while  at  the  other  end,  near  the 
Green,  lives  Frank  Millet,  the  painter. 

"  Broadway  is  beautiful,  and  Broadway  is 
stately,  and  Broadway  is  aristocratic,  but  I 

107 


Among  English  Inns 

should  prefer  to  paint  Elmley  Castle,  and  I 
shall  live  in  Cropthorne,"  said  Polly. 

Broadway,  with  an  accent  on  the  Broad, 
has  other  attraction  beside  the  Tudor  houses, 
and,  after  we  have  had  tea  out  of  a  broken- 
nosed  teapot,  which  the  Invalid  sneeringly 
calls  *'  a  Cromwell  relic,"  bread,  butter,  and 
jam,  and  paid  a  shilling  and  three  pence  each 
for  the  meal,  we  explored  the  village  a  bit, 
and  then  started  off  where  roads  shaded  by 
fine  trees  led  through  undulating  country  to 
the  beautifully  kept  park  where  Lord  Elcho's 
house,  Stanway  Hall,  stands  behind  a  superb 
gateway,  designed  by  Inigo  Jones.  Long 
avenues  of  trees  and  broad  stretches  of  turf 
and  woody  hillsides  are  at  Stanway  Hall,  and 
a  little  beyond  is  Toddington,  once  the  estate 
of  Lord  Suddely,  who  proudly  claimed  de- 
scent from  that  Tracy  who  distinguished  him- 
self by  making  away  with  Thomas  a  Becket. 
One  of  the  modern  Lords  of  Suddely  indulged 
in  a  fatal  taste  for  speculation,  with  the  result 
that  the  great  park  is  now  in  the  hands  of  a 
rich  Newcastle  collier. 

Another  pretty  estate,  Stanton,  lies  nearer 
Broadway.  Polly  dwelt  in  the  land  of  her 
favourite  gentry.  The  car  ran  past  one  estate 
after  another,  large  and  small  parks  and  farm 

io8 


Clerks  Hill  Farm 

lands,  model  villages,  and  the  graceful  arches 
which  mark  the  ruins  of  another  vanished 
abbey,  —  that  of  St.  Mary  Hailes.  In  this 
abbey,  now  slowly  falling,  was  preserved 
the  bones  of  Henry  of  Almayn,  a  nephew  of 
King  Henry  the  Third.  He  was  slain  in  Italy 
by  the  sons  of  Simon  de  Montfort  in  revenge 
for  the  part  his  father  took  against  the  earl. 
According  to  the  cheerful  custom  of  the  time, 
his  heart  was  enshrined  in  the  tomb  of  Ed- 
ward the  Confessor,  his  flesh  was  buried  in 
Rome,  and  his  bones  at  St.  Mary  Hailes, 
where  the  monks  boasted  of  having  the  real 
blood  of  Christ.  If  any  town  ever  grew  up 
about  this  abbey,  it  has  now  completely  dis- 
appeared. One  solitary  farmhouse  remains 
near  the  ivy-draped  arches  of  the  former 
cloister. 

We  saw  evidences  of  the  rule  of  the  abbots 
scattered  all  along  our  road  in  the  huge  tithe- 
barns  or  in  ruined  chapels,  which  antedate  the 
Norman  period,  and  were  evidently  estab- 
lished by  the  monks  for  the  sake  of  the  coun- 
try people  who  lived  too  far  from  the  abbey 
to  attend  the  churches  there. 

One  week  proved  far  too  short,  however, 
to  permit  even  a  glimpse  at  all  the  treasures 
of  Evesham's  neighbourhood;    the  fates  were 

109 


Among  English  Inns 

against  us.  As  every  one  knows,  it  sometimes 
rains  in  England,  and  some  of  the  rainiest 
days  of  our  trip  befell  us  in  Evesham.  The 
skies  began  to  let  down  torrents  in  the  night, 
and,  when  we  came  down  to  breakfast,  there 
was  a  dreary  drizzle  falling  on  the  big  bushes 
of  La  France  roses  in  front  of  our  window. 
It  rained  down  on  the  other  roses  as  well,  but 
somehow  the  gay  pink  bushes  looked  saddest 
on  the  wet  mornings.  Polly  we  found  stand- 
ing in  front  of  the  small  grate  looking  as  hope- 
lessly disconsolate  as  the  roses.  A  few  sticks 
of  wood  standing  upright  and  one  or  two  lone- 
some lumps  of  coal  were  trying  in  vain  to 
start  into  a  glow. 

"  Why  don't  you  send  for  the  blower? " 
said  the  Matron,  her  housekeeper's  instinct 
at  once  alert. 

"Why?  why?  Because  a  blower  is  an  un- 
known commodity  in  this  house.  The  little 
maid  has  never  heard  of  one." 

"  Did  you  try  sign  language?  "  asked  the 
Invalid.  "  Perhaps  blowers  have  perhaps 
other  names  here." 

"  Not  only  did  I  try  sign  language,  but  the 
little  maid  looked  at  me  with  the  rapture  of 
a  discoverer  when  T  held  the  newspaper  up 
to  cause  a  draught.     She  knows  what  blower 

no 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

means.  She  says  she  has  heard  they  had  them 
down  Birmingham  way.  The  only  help  she 
could  give  me  was  to  lie  prone  on  the  floor 
and  make  a  human  bellows  of  herself." 

"  It  must  be  cheerful  here  on  winter  morn- 
ings to  get  up  and  start  life  with  that  sort  of 
a  fire,"  the  Matron  was  beginning  to  say  when 
our  landlady  came  in  with  the  cofifee. 

"  English  fires  only  ask  to  be  let  alone," 
she  said,  finishing  the  Matron's  remarks. 
"  They  will  burn  by  themselves  without  out- 
side encouragement  when  they  get  ready." 

This  proved  to  be  a  fact.  By  the  time  we 
had  eaten  breakfast,  with  cold  shivers  running 
down  our  backs,  the  fire  was  beginning  to 
show  itself  willing  to  warm  us  in  a  gentle 
English  fashion.  A  rainy  day  is  famous  for 
correspondence.  Those  who  had  no  letters 
to  write  did  the  family  mending,  and  stared 
out  the  window  betvs^een  stitches.  The  roses 
went  on  blooming  and  the  birds  kept  on  sing- 
ing, the  far-away  Cotswold  changed  colour 
every  moment,  going  from  dark  green  to  light 
yellow,  from  brilliant  sea-green  to  dark  blue. 
A  rainbow  showed  itself  at  intervals  to  de- 
ceive us,  and  the  meadovv^s  and  plum  orchards 
had  mom.ents  of  hopeful  brightness,  but  the 
downpour  kept  on  in  floods  just  the  same. 

Ill 


Among  English  Inns 

Wet  weather  seldom  troubles  the  English 
pleasure-seeker,  we  observed,  and  on  Our 
Rainy  Day  the  little  river  steamer  went  puff- 
ing along  as  usual.  The  ship's  music  (pro- 
duced by  the  lone  effort  of  one  cornet) 
sounded  vigorously  in  the  damp  atmosphere, 
and  we  even  caught  sight  of  an  overgay  pas- 
senger executing  a  jig  quite  alone  on  the  small 
deck. 

The  clouds  broke  late  in  the  afternoon  to 
make  way  for  a  flaming  sunset,  and  the  new 
moon  popped  out  of  the  sky,  a  polished  silver 
crescent.  The  red  town  roofs  became  even 
redder,  and  a  soft  mist  arose,  marking  the 
course  of  the  Avon. 

Polly  and  I  got  our  feet  into  "  galoshes  " 
and  started  oft'  to  town.  We  found  every  shop 
closed,  and  we  were  leaving  on  the  morrow 
without  half  the  photographs  we  needed!  It 
was  Early  Closing  Day.  Early  Closing  Day 
is  the  plague  of  the  traveller  in  England. 
You  never  know  when  you  are  coming 
upon  it. 

Each  town  has  its  own  day  in  the  week  on 
which  it  chooses  to  take  an  afternoon  holiday. 
Promptly  at  two  o'clock  every  shopkeeper 
locks  his  door  fast,  and,  from  the  chemist 
down  to  the  cobbler,  the  most  vigorous  knock- 

112 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

ing  will  not  induce  him  to  open  an  inch  for  a 
customer.  The  shopkeeper  and  all  his  as- 
sistants then  go  ofif  to  enjoy  the  afternoon,  each 
in  his  favourite  way. 

We  wandered  down  Bridge  Street,  prop- 
erly indignant,  as  becomes  the  American  away 
from  home,  seeing  the  desired  photographs 
behind  the  glass  of  the  windows  to  exasperate 
us,  while  we  shook  the  shop  doors  in  vain. 

"  Why  can't  we  console  our  sore  hearts  by 
going  to  the  theatre  to-night?  "  I  said. 

I  had  caught  sight  just  then  among  the 
pictures  of  a  brilliant  yellow  playbill,  on 
which  stood  in  large  letters: 

"  Evesham  Theatre, 
"  Mrs.   Sinclair,   Proprietress, 
"  Sir  Henry  Irving,  Patron." 

followed  by  a  most  exciting  list  of  plays. 

I  had  many  a  time  looked  with  longing  eyes 
at  the  barn-like  structure  of  combined  cor- 
rugated iron  and  canvas,  which  stood  by  a 
strong  picket  fence  opposite  the  Pleasure 
Grounds.  This  was  the  home  of  the  drama  in 
Evesham.  We  had  no  sooner  revealed  to  one 
another  the  innermost  desire  of  our  souls 
awakened  by  the  brilliant  playbill  than  we 
started  off  in  hot  haste  to  secure  tickets.  Down 

113 


Among  English  Inns 


mTOBUTHEATU 


DB'^^'SES: 


Proprietress 
Patron 


Mrs.  M.  C.  SINCIiAIB. 
Six  HENRY    IRVING. 


MONDAY,    SEPTEMBER    22nd. 

fieproducUon  of  the  New  and  Ori^n&l  Play,  of  intense  local  tntereot)  vrltten  by  the  aothot  <tf 
tb»  "  Campden  Wonder."  and  entiUed— 


Or.  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  ABBEY  RUINS. 


<A  Komance  ^  other  Days). 
VSW  lOOAL  SCENERY.  Painted  by  Frrmk  WalUs 


Omood  (1u*  fa&U-broC&ef) 


P£ES8£3'  OF  TEE  F£EIOP.  BLABTSLL0U8  EFFECTS.  Ac,  fto 

SOuMuTltj lir.  A-HWara 

Ur  R.  Badileloj 
..     little  Bct7  WbUu 


.  kn  fttrra  I  Mr  H.  C  61aelur  1 

ACT  L— DOWN  THE  AVON       An  old-time  Outing.      The  Herxolt's   Cave   at  Salford  Prlora 

The  Love  that  Ulle. 
AOT  a.— THE  WEDDINO    EVE-  An    unwelcome    Guest    and    an    unexpected    Buinmona. 

THE  ABBEY  RUINS  (fay  Moonlight).       The  Brothere        A  eame  ol  Life  and  Death. 

THE  DUEI^  AMOWO  THE  TO]||LBb  ^  -  -  

ACTS— THE  WF.DDJNO  MORNING         Th6  SUBSlnft'  BrldepTftsm         A  Disappointed  Party. 

The  Search -S I nciUar  result.        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  TOMB 
A0T4.— AFTER  TWELVE  MONTHa       -Change  of    circumatancea        A  ruined  Father  and  an 

Obedient  Daughter         The  Breaking  Heart        FELICIA'S  DREAM,  illustrated  by  a 

Series  of  l^z  A Fi VILLOUS  LXFC-LUCS  PlCTUXtJBS  ( Invented.  Taken,  and 

Worked  by  Mr.  H.  C  Sinclair). 
H  B  — An  effect  never  before  worked  on  Any  staga      The  Joy  Bells  and  Happy  Denonexnent. 


A  New  Grand  Historical  Play,  by  the  Author  of  "  The  Campden  Wonu,cr,"  •*  Evesham  in 
1730,"  Ac,  &c  .  entitled— THE 

BATTLE  OF  EYESHAM 

Or,  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  SIMON  DE  MONTFORT 

Will  be  producftd  shortly. 


N  B  — In  Active  Preparation,  and  will  Shortly  be  Produced— 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer.  Siberia 

The  Maid  of  the  Mountain,  &c.,  &c. 

PBICES  OF  ADMISSION.  —Reserved  Seats  Is.  6(L,  Boxes  Is..  Stalls  dd^ 
Fit  6d.,  Gallery  3d. ;  :HaIf  price  to  First  ajid  Second  Seats  at  Nine 
o'clock.    Doors  open  at  7,  commence  at  7.30. 


Osreettlst        Mr  EEKBEBT  OBEHT  PlaalM        ...        Hr.  JAHE8  OOODKV 

Btoonl  VioUn  Mr  BENSLET  OHEKT  Vlolonoallo        —         Hr  W.  COTTKJt 

'  "     v.  •  B.  atUTB  UA.  It*  /wnU  t'tm,  analuB 


114 


Clerks  Hill  Farm 

we  went  over  the  bridge,  past  the  Pleasure 
Grounds,  to  where  the  "  Victoria  Theatre  " 
hung  out  a  sign  like  an  inn.  But  the  high 
picket  fence  protecting  the  playhouse  had 
apparently  no  gate.  Our  anticipated  evening 
pleasure  seemed  slipping  away  from  us. 

"  Perhaps  the  house  is  sold  out  and  the 
ticket-sellers  have  gone  home,"  sighed  Polly. 
No  theatre  is  without  its  hanger-on,  who,  if 
not  the  rose,  would  be  near  the  rose,  and  a 
loiterer  without  the  sacred  picket,  seeing  our 
longing  looks,  came  to  our  aid. 

"  If  you  are  looking  for  tickets,"  he  said, 
"  here  comes  one  of  the  young  men.  He  will 
take  you  to  Mrs.  Sinclair." 

To  Mrs.  Sinclair!  into  the  very  presence 
of  the  manager! 

We  approached  timidly  and  were  soon  fol- 
lowing the  youth  through  the  yard  of  the 
Northwick  Arms  next  door,  dodging  behind 
sheds  until  we  finally  emerged  in  a  broad 
field,  where  were  gathered  a  colony  of  trav- 
elling-vans. The  young  man  led  us  to  the 
brightest  and  smartest  of  these  little  houses 
on  wheels. 

"  Here's  some  ladies  as  wants  good  tickets, 
Mrs.  Sinclair,"  he  called  out.  We  had  told 
him  our  business.    A  smiling,  pleasant  woman 

"5 


Among  English  Inns 

appeared  at  the  door  and  invited  us  to  climb 
the  ladder-like  doorstep  into  her  home.  We 
mounted  with  beating  hearts.  All  our  desires 
were  being  fulfilled  at  once.  We  were  going 
to  see  the  play,  and,  better  still,  the  inside  of 
one  of  those  vans  whose  possession  we  envied 
the  commonest  peddler. 

Mrs.  Sinclair  lived  in  no  gipsy  fashion. 
The  outside  of  her  van  was  as  beautiful  as 
a  state  carriage;  the  little  windows  were 
adorned  with  boxes  of  trailing  nasturtiums 
and  curtained  with  lace.  Within,  the  cosy 
sitting-room  had  gas  "  laid  on,"  an  open  fire- 
place, a  sofa  and  easy  chairs,  and  goldfish 
swimming  gaily  around  in  a  big  glass  globe 
among  the  plants  inside  the  window.  I  never 
took  much  interest  in  goldfish  before,  but 
goldfish  who  lived  in  a  travelling-van  became 
instantly  different  from  those  who  only  mi- 
grate once  in  life  from  a  bird-shop  to  a  nursery 
window  or  dressmaker's  parlour. 

The  question  of  tickets  was  settled  speedily. 
We  got  the  best  places  at  eighteen  pence  each, 
and  then  were  invited  to  inspect  Mrs.  Sin- 
clair's "  little  'ome  "  and  "  h'airy  bedroom  " 
next  to  the  parlour.  Clean  and  tidy  it  looked 
to  us,  although  we  were  begged  to  excuse  the 
disorder  because,  the  lady  of  the  house  said, 

ii6 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

she  had  been  "  turnin'  out,"  in  other  words, 
putting  her  belongings  in  rights. 

"  The  kitchen  is  in  another  van,"  she  told 
us;  "we  don't  like  to  smell  up  our  little 
'ome." 

Polly  and  I  longed  to  be  invited  to  dinner, 
or  even  to  tea,  but  time  was  flying;  there 
were  signs  of  activity  in  the  acting  colony. 

We  saw  figures  going  in  and  out  of  the 
stage-door  in  the  distant  theatre,  and  Mrs. 
Sinclair  told  us  that,  although  half-past  seven 
was  the  usual  hour  for  beginning  the  play, 
they  sometimes  opened  earlier,  if  the  crowd 
around  the  door  was  great  and  vociferous. 
We  had  learned  that  the  Victoria  Theatre 
travels  from  Evesham  in  the  summer  to 
Shakespeare's  own  town,  Stratford  upon 
Avon,  for  the  winter.  The  Victoria  Theatre 
is  a  theatre  rich  in  financial  advantages.  The 
scenic  artist  is  leader  of  the  orchestra,  painter 
and  musician.  The  dramatist  most  popular 
with  the  audience  is  a  member  of  the  com- 
pany, all  royalties  being  thus  directed  into 
the  home  treasury.  The  company  of  actors 
is  largely  a  family  afifair.  I  fancy  that  cos- 
tumes and  properties  are  also  home-made. 

Pasteboard  is  saved  by  the  ingenious 
method  of  writing  the  name  of  the  patron 

117 


Among  English  Inns 

of  the  expensive  seats  upon  a  bit  of  paper, 
which  is  put  in  the  box-office  to  be  called  for. 
Another  praiseworthy  custom  of  the  Evesham 
theatre  is  the  selling  of  half-time  tickets.  If 
you  dine  late,  you  come  late  and  pay  less;  or, 
if  you  go  to  the  play  and  are  not  pleased,  you 
can  leave  before  the  play  ends,  and  so  save 
money. 

"  Would  we  could  do  the  same  thing  in 
New  York,"  said  Polly,  whose  economical 
soul  is  often  tortured  by  the  inability  to  get 
her  money  back  when  she  is  too  bored  to  sit 
through  a  play. 

Our  friends  hailed  our  plan  with  joy,  and, 
although  we  hurried  through  our  dinners,  the 
attendance  before  the  gates  must  have  been 
numerous  and  noisy  that  night,  for,  when  we 
arrived,  shortly  after  half-past  seven,  the  play 
was  in  full  blast  and  the  house  crowded  to 
repletion.  There  were  no  half-time  tickets 
sold,  I  am  sure;  the  play  was  too  stirring. 
The  drama  dealt  with  an  occurrence  near 
Evesham  some  hundred  years  ago,  and  was 
called  the  "  Camden  Wonder." 

A  man  named  Harrison,  the  agent  of  an 
estate,  was  out  collecting  rents,  when  he  was 
seized  by  ruffians,  hurried  on  board  a  ship, 
and  finally  sold  as  a  slave.     His  servant,  one 

ri5 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

John  Perry,  none  too  strong  in  his  wits,  went 
clean  daft  under  the  stress  of  fright  and  anx- 
iety, and  declared  that  he  had  murdered  his 
master  with  the  help  of  his  brother  and  of 
his  mother,  who  were  tenants  of  the  man  Har- 
rison. So  plausible  was  the  crazy  man's  con- 
fession that  not  only  he,  but  his  mother  and 
brother  were  hanged,  in  spite  of  their  frantic 
protestations  of  innocence.  Long  years  after 
this  tragic  event,  the  missing  man  returned, 
to  the  horror  of  all  concerned.  It  was  this 
stirring  local  tragedy  we  went  to  see,  and  it 
had  lost  nothing  in  the  hands  of  the  actor- 
dramatist.  The  scene-painter,  too,  had  pro- 
duced marvels  of  nature  on  the  canvas.  The 
orchestra  had  a  lugubrious  motif  for  the  mis- 
erable, sad  servant,  which  was  played  every 
time  he  dragged  his  weary  shape  across  the 
stage. 

Each  act  had  numerous  scenes.  A  sprightly 
London  detective  of  the  nineteenth-century 
type  was  introduced,  to  the  delight  of  the 
three-penny  seats,  —  called  by  courtesy  the 
gallery.  He  was  a  little  out  of  place  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  but  he  fulfilled  his  mis- 
sion and  spoke  up  boldly. 

We  missed  the  first  view  of  Mr.  Harrison. 
When  we  were  ushered  into  our  cushioned 

119 


Among  English  Inns 

bench,  he  had  left  the  scene  in  bitter  anger 
because  John  Perry's  mother  could  not  pay 
her  rent,  but  also  because  in  the  delinquent 
tenant's  cottage  he  found  his  son  making  love 
to  a  girl  "too  poor  to  be  his  wife."  Our  sym- 
pathies were  thus  at  once  enlisted  against  "  old 
Harrison,"  as  he  was  called  throughout  the 
play.  We  did  not  see  anybody  when  we  came 
in  but  John  Perry,  a  dark-visaged  individual 
who  had  neglected  to  comb  his  hair,  and  who 
found  great  difficulty  in  moving  his  jaw  when 
he  spoke,  greatly  to  the  disgust  of  the  three- 
pennyites.  He  had  a  ball-and-chain  walk, 
and  we  were  against  him  from  the  first,  but 
he  told  us  all  the  news. 

A  quick  change  of  scene  gave  the  London 
detective  a  splendid  entrance  in  disguise.  Fie 
captured  two  highwaymen  just  by  way  of 
showing  what  he  could  do,  and  put  the 
thrip'nnies  in  such  a  state  of  excitement  that 
they  had  to  be  quelled  by  the  ringing  of  a 
huge  dinner-bell. 

There  were  no  evening  dresses  or  stupid 
conventionalities  at  the  Victoria  Theatre. 
The  air  was  thick  with  smoke,  and  a  senti- 
ment of  home-like  liberty  prevailed.  An 
orchestra  of  one  piano,  one  cornetist,  and  two 
violins   dispensed   music   appropriate   to   the 

T20 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

drama,  and  a  brilliant  drop-curtain,  repre- 
senting a  scene  in  a  world  of  imagination, 
occupied  with  its  mysteries  the  intervals  be- 
tween the  acts. 

Local  dramas  are  highly  popular  at  the 
Evesham  theatre.  We  longed  to  stop  over  for 
"  Evesham  in  1730,"  to  be  given  the  next 
night.  We  were  assured  by  a  speech  made 
by  one  of  the  leading  characters  before  the 
curtain  that  this  drama  was  resplendent  with 
great  efifects  of  costume,  electric  lights,  and 
scenery. 

A  friend  who  had  once  been  present  at  an- 
other exciting  play,  "  The  Battle  of  Eve- 
sham," told  us  that  the  queen  in  this  drama, 
gorgeous  in  splendid  robes,  stepped  out  of 
the  fireplace,  which  served  as  well  for  a 
portal,  and,  holding  up  her  jewelled  finger, 
said,  "  Hush!  "  while  the  equally  magnificent 
king  sprang  forward,  surprised  and  delighted, 
shouting,  "My  Yelenor!" 

We  believe  this  to  be  calumny.  We  lost 
many  points,  doubtless  witty  and  brilliant, 
owing  to  a  somewhat  immovable  jaw  with 
which  several  of  the  actors  were  afflicted,  and 
a  lisp  or  two  among  the  actresses  interfered 
sadly  with  their  coherency,  but  the  accom- 
plished elocutionists  of  the  company  treated 

121 


Among  English  Inns 

the  dreadful  letter  "  h  "  with  respect.  It  was 
weak  at  times,  but  we  felt  its  presence  always. 

The  morning  after  our  theatre-party  treat, 
we  took  our  way  toward  Derbyshire  by  way 
of  Tewkesbury,  the  town  of  the  great  battle, 
of  the  great  abbey,  and  of  the  great  novel  by 
Miss  Mulock,  "John  Halifax,  Gentleman." 

Bright  and  early  we  bade  a  sad  farewell 
to  our  comfortable  lodgings,  to  the  roses,  to 
the  thrushes,  the  trees,  and  the  river,  and  we 
promised  our  gentle  hostess  to  come  back  to 
her  some  day.  The  Invalid  filled  the  air  with 
lamentations  and  regrets  for  the  sights  left 
unseen;  the  Matron  sighed  for  more  picnic 
teas  by  the  river;  Polly  rejoiced  in  the  small 
amount  we  had  drawn  from  the  treasury. 

Tewkesbury  is  only  fourteen  miles  from 
Evesham,  and  we  wished  we  might  have 
found  it  possible  to  go  there  by  the  motor-car, 
but  we  could  not  arrange  it  to  every  one's 
satisfaction,  so  we  were  forced  to  go  by  the 
Midland  Railway.  It  is  a  pleasant  journey 
by  rail,  and  pretty  little  stations  lie  all  along 
the  route.  At  Ashchurch  we  had  the  choice 
of  waiting  an  hour  for  the  train  on  the  branch 
road  to  Tewkesbury,  or  of  walking  two  miles. 
This  was  an  easy  matter  to  decide  on  a  day 
when  the  sun  shines  down  clear  and  bright 

122 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

on  a  broad,  straight  road,  such  as  the  station- 
master  pointed  out  to  us.  The  foot-path  worn 
along  the  side  proved  that  we  were  not  the 
only  impatient  souls  who  objected  to  waiting 
at  Ashchurch  Junction. 

"  We  are  getting  to  walk  almost  like  Eng- 
lish girls.  We  have  gone  two  miles  in  less 
than  an  hour,"  said  Polly,  as  we  saw  the  be- 
ginnings of  Tewkesbury  on  either  side  of  us. 

It  was  not  so  much  of  a  feat,  for  the  road 
is  perfectly  even  and  almost  without  a  curve. 
We  had  arrived  before  the  train. 

Tewkesbury  streets,  full  of  ancient  half- 
timbered  houses,  have  forgotten  all  about 
time.  They  are  still  dreaming  of  the  Wars 
of  the  Roses  and  the  rule  of  the  abbots.  As 
we  made  our  way  up  the  Church  Street  to 
the  abbey,  the  irregular,  overhanging  gables, 
the  projecting  galleries  of  centuries  past, 
filled  our  souls  with  artistic  delight.  At  the 
end  of  it,  almost  blocking  the  way,  stands  the 
Bell  Inn,  a  most  perfect  specimen  of  sixteenth- 
century  architecture.  It  was  the  house  which 
Miss  Mulock  took  as  the  home  of  Abel 
Fletcher  in  her  novel. 

"  We  will  eat  our  luncheon  here,  and  talk 
about  John  after  we  have  seen  Tewkesbury," 
decided  the  Matron. 

123 


Among  English  Inns 

The  Abbey  Church  is  just  across  the  street 
from  the  Bell  Inn.  The  street  takes  a  sharp 
turn  by  the  side  of  the  inn,  and  we  did  not 
see  the  great  church  behind  the  trees  of  the 
churchyard  until  we  were  quite  in  front  of 
the  Bell.  It  is  almost  a  cathedral,  —  rough 
and  bold,  as  are  all  Norman  structures. 

The  exterior  of  Tewkesbury  Abbey  Church 
is  bold  rather  than  beautiful.  It  is  strong, 
solemn,  symbolic  of  the  times  when  it  was 
built.     The  interior  is  very  impressive. 

"  The  grandeur  of  this  nave,  its  great,  sim- 
ple columns,  stirs  my  religious  nature  very 
deeply,"  declared  the  Matron,  and  we  all 
silently  agreed  with  her. 

There  is  nothing  so  genuine,  so  imposing, 
as  the  pure  Norman.  Norman  architecture  is 
a  frozen  choral.  The  tombs  about  the  choir 
are  of  much  more  ornamental  character.  One 
of  them,  which  is  built  about  a  horrible  effigy 
of  a  monk  long  dead,  has  the  richest  work- 
manship. It  is  said  the  upper  part  was  the 
model  for  the  canopy  for  the  throne  in  the 
House  of  Parliament.  We  were  told  the 
brave  little  prince,  last  of  the  House  of  Lan- 
caster, who  perished  so  cruelly  in  the  battle  of 
Tewkesbury,  was  buried  here  in  the  abbey, 
together  with  many  of  the  nobles  who  were 

124 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

killed  on  that  fatal  day.  The  Despencer,  who 
made  himself  hated  as  a  king's  favourite  in 
the  time  of  the  first  Edward,  was  laid  under 
a  magnificent  tomb,  but  it  was  entirely  des- 
troyed at  the  time  of  the  dissolution.  The 
Duke  of  Somerset,  beheaded  in  Tewkesbury 
market-place  after  the  battle,  the  Duke  of 
Clarence,  who  chose  to  perish  through  Malm- 
sey wine.  Lord  Wenlock,  and  many  of  the 
Despencer  family,  lie  here  under  fine  tombs. 
Among  these  ambitious,  warlike  dead  is  a 
tablet  to  the  memory  of  Dinah  Maria  Mulock, 
—  Mrs.  Craik,  —  who  wrote  the  immortal 
history  of  a  gentleman,  a  book  as  fresh,  as 
delightful  to  the  young  generation  as  it  was 
to  their  grandmothers,  and  which  will  bring 
more  pilgrims  to  Tewkesbury  than  all  the 
great  fighters  now  lying  at  peace  in  the  Abbey 
Church. 

Tewkesbury  has  changed  but  little  since 
Miss  Mulock's  time.  The  Bowling  Green, 
where  readers  of  the  novel  will  remember 
that  John  Halifax  and  Phineas  Fletcher  had 
one  of  their  first  intimate  talks,  is  behind  the 
Bell  Inn,  and  the  entrance  is  still  through  the 
kitchen  and  fruit  garden,  —  "a  large  square, 
chiefly  grass,  bounded  by  its  broad  gravel 
walk;   and  above  that,  apparently  shut  in  as 

125 


Among  English  Inns 

with  an  impassable  barrier  from  the  outer 
world,  by  a  three-sided  fence,  the  high  wall, 
the  yew  hedge,  and  the  river,"  —  so  Miss 
Mulock  described  the  place.  The  yew  hedge 
is  immensely  tall,  and  over  it  can  be  seen  the 
square  tower  of  the  Abbey  Church.  There  are 
comfortable  arbours,  where  tea  is  served  from 
the  inn,  and  the  hedge  has  been  cut  away  on 
the  river  side,  making  a  lookout  in  this  direc- 
tion upon  the  narrow  Avon.  The  mill,  once 
belonging  to  the  abbots,  which  Miss  Mulock 
makes  the  terrible  scene  of  poor  Abel  Fletch- 
er's angry  madness,  is  still  standing.  Beyond 
and  far  away  over  the  green  we  could  see 
small  white  sails  on  the  Severn,  which  seem 
to  skim  along  the  meadows,  that  is  the  broad 
plain  on  which  York  and  Lancaster  ended 
the  War  of  the  Roses  in  the  one  great  deci- 
sive battle  of  Tewkesbury.  Peaceful  grazing 
cattle  and  a  few  boys  with  long  fishing-rods 
are  the  only  dots  on  this  huge  land  where  once 
men  fought  so  savagely,  brother  against 
brother. 

"  It  is  big  enough  to  furnish  a  battle-ground 
for  four  armies  at  the  same  time,"  said  the 
Invalid. 

None  of  us  have  had  enough  warlike  ex- 
perience to  disagree  with  her.    We  know  that 

126 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm 

here  poor,  unhappy,  ambitious  Queen  Mar- 
garet made  her  last  stand  for  her  husband 
and  son,  and  that  here  the  brave  young  Prince 
of  Wales,  crushed  by  the  insulting  blow  from 
Edward  of  York's  gauntlet,  fell  and  was 
stabbed  to  death;  and  that  the  weak  husband, 
Henry  of  Lancaster,  paid  the  price  of  this 
fight  by  death  in  the  Tower.  Along  the  river- 
bank  near  the  mill  an  ancient  group  of  houses 
are  still  standing  which  we  like  to  think  were 
there  on  the  day  of  the  great  victory  of  the 
House  of  York. 

The  narrow  lanes  and  crooked  streets  we 
have  read  of  in  "John  Halifax"  still  lead 
down  to  the  banks  of  the  Avon.  Inside  the 
Bell  the  low,  square  rooms  with  high,  plain 
oak  wainscoting,  where  we  eat  our  lunch,  the 
countless  queer  cupboards  in  the  corners,  the 
dark,  winding  staircase  and  the  uneven  floors, 
all  speak  of  an  age  as  great  as  the  abbey  ruins. 
Our  association  with  the  house,  however,  con- 
cerns that  more  modern  and  very  real  person- 
age, John  Halifax,  Gentleman,  and  we  enjoy 
our  lunch  much  better  for  feeling  sure  we  are 
in  that  room  where,  "  to  Jack's  great  wrath, 
and  my  (Phineas)  great  joy,  John  Halifax 
was  bidden,  and  sat  down  to  the  same  board 
zis  his  master." 

127 


Among  English  Inns 

We  walked  down  the  narrow,  winding 
street  on  our  way  back  to  the  station,  with 
enough  time  before  us  to  stop  and  admire  the 
interesting  old  buildings  which  have  been  so 
well  preserved.  Tewkesbury  was  in  a  fair 
way,  some  thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  to  lose 
most  of  its  architectural  treasures  through 
neglect  and  carelessness.  Fortunately,  some 
art-loving  citizens  took  the  matter  in  hand, 
many  of  the  decaying  buildings  were  restored, 
the  modern  ugly  plaster  fronts  were  torn  ofif 
of  others,  the  fine  ancient  carved  beams  and 
supports  thus  exposed  to  view,  the  old  case- 
ments mended,  and  the  curious  gables  pre- 
served. During  the  course  of  these  restora- 
tions some  wonderful  old  bits  of  archi- 
tecture were  discovered,  and  now  the  visitor 
to  Tewkesbury  town  can  gaze  on  work  done 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  or  even  earlier. 
House  fronts  are  here  which  looked  down  on 
the  armed  men  of  the  king-making  Duke  of 
Warwick,  and  on  the  gay  doings  of  Eliza- 
bethan nobles. 

"  It  is  cruel  to  rush  us  away  from  this  de- 
lightful old  place,"  said  the  Matron,  with  her 
nose  deep  in  the  sixpenny  "  Hand-Book  of 
Old  Tewkesbury;"  "there  are  enough  deli- 
cious old  houses  to  keep  me  busy  for  a  week." 

128 


Clerks  Hill  Farm 

"  Then  you  must  come  back  again,"  said 
stern  Polly,  flourishing  the  through  tickets 
she  had  bought  at  Ashchurch.  "  Our  lug- 
gage is  labelled  Rowsley,  and  probably  on  its 
changing  way  to  Derbyshire  at  this  very  mo- 
ment." 

"  Tewkesbury  is  not  entirely  without  mod- 
ern comforts,"  observed  the  Invalid.  "  There 
is  the  bill-board  of  the  opera  house." 

"  And  what  a  play!  "  exclaims  the  shocked 
Matron.  "  Here,  with  large,  respectable  fam- 
ilies of  small  children  tumbling  out  of  every 
doorway,  they  present  '  The  Gay  Grisette! '  " 

The  Treasurer  softly  laughed  at  the 
Matron's  virtuous  indignation,  and  then 
shooed  us  along  like  hens  to  catch  our  train. 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  did  not  walk  all  the 
way  to  Ashchurch,"  was  what  we  sang  in 
chorus.  The  station  seemed  about  two  miles 
from  the  centre  of  the  town,  and  a  long  part 
of  the  walk  was  through  such  ugly  new  streets 
that  we  were  sorry  to  have  discovered  them 
in  delightful  old  Tewkesbury.  But,  before 
the  train  took  us  ofif,  the  view  from  the  station 
platform  of  the  winding  Severn  River,  and 
the  battle-plain  with  the  high  hills  of  Mal- 
vern, looking  down  at  a  blue  distance  on  the 
square   tower   of   the   Abbey   Church    rising 

129 


Among  English  Inns 

among  the  trees,  shut  out  the  remembrance 
of  the  shabby  new  villas. 

"Good-bye,  Tewkesbury!"  sighs  the  Ma- 
tron. "  We  are  off  for  an  afternoon  on  the 
exciting  railway  of  Great  Britain,  but,  if  we 
had  known  how  enchanting  you  were,  even 
our  Treasurer  should  not  have  hurried  us 
away  from  you." 


130 


8  \pm/Si,(^^<mL'S::i 


CHAPTER   V 

PEACOCK  INN 
Rowsley 

H  E  way  from 
Tewkesbu  ry 
to  Derby  is 
through  Burton 
and  Birmingham,  and  that  is  a  tale  of  a 
smoky,  dull  lookout.  The  air  had  become 
misty,  and  the  sullen  atmosphere  of  these 
great  manufacturing  cities  had  spread  over 
all  the  intervening  country.  Of  course  we 
changed  at  Birmingham,  but  luckily  we  had 
no  wait  there,  and  soon  got  beyond  the  cloud 
which  hung  over  busy  Derby  before  the  sun- 
set hour. 

A  chipper  old  gentleman  invaded  our  car- 
riage at  Derby,  and  at  once  began  conversa- 
tion by  asking  us  if  we  were  off  for  a  tour. 
When,  by  our  answer,  he  discovered  us  to 

131 


Among  English  Inns 

be  from  the  United  States,  he  at  once  pro- 
ceeded to  enlighten  us  about  the  small  towns 
we  were  passing. 

The  mist  was  rising  in  the  meadow-land 
which  lay  far  below  the  track,  and  beatified 
sheep  and  legless  cattle  appeared  grazing 
there  on  clouds,  dipping  their  heads  solemnly 
into  the  ethereal  food;  the  sky  was  full  of 
the  glory  of  an  after-sunset  glow,  and  the  mist 
took  from  it  the  soft  tints  of  rose  petals.  Here 
and  there  on  the  side  of  the  hills  were  mys- 
terious swirls,  as  though  the  elves  were  start- 
ing out  for  an  evening  lark  under  a  cloud  just 
their  size. 

The  old  gentleman  left  us  at  a  station  with 
the  surprising  name  of  Whatstandwell,  after 
he  had  filled  us  with  local  information.  At 
Dufiield,  he  told  us,  lived  George  Eliot  for 
a  time,  when  she  was  writing  "  Adam  Bede," 
a  novel  which  has  its  action  among  this  scen- 
ery and  in  the  town  of  Derby.  There  is  also 
at  Duffield  the  remains  of  a  great  Norman 
castle,  which  must  have  been  very  splendid  in 
its  day. 

At  Belper  a  great  plague  devastated  the 
whole  town  early  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  in  its  churchyard  fifty-three  of  the  vic- 
tims lie  buried.    We  didn't  see  much  of  the 

132 


Peacock  Inn 

town  at  the  time  this  sad  tale  was  being  told 
us.  We  were  then  under  the  earth  in  one  of 
the  numerous  tunnels  hereabouts,  but  we 
trusted  the  old  gentleman.  Where  What- 
standwell  got  its  name  we  failed  to  discover. 
Our  chatty  acquaintance  left  us  so  abruptly 
that  not  until  he  had  departed  did  we  see  the 
extraordinary  name  of  his  home  village. 

The  scenery  became  after  this,  with  each 
mile,  more  interesting.  Derbyshire  at  first 
looks  somewhat  dreary  to  eyes  accustomed  to 
the  smiling  gardens  and  orchards  of  Worces- 
tershire. The  gray  rocks  crop  out  of  the  dark 
green  hillside,  the  houses  are  built  of  dull- 
coloured  stone  from  the  near-by  quarries,  and 
long  lines  of  carefully  constructed  stone  fences 
stretch  away  for  miles.  The  river  Derwent 
winds  and  twists,  first  on  one  side  of  the  track 
and  then  on  the  other.  The  narrow  valley  is 
here  a  picturesque  gorge,  with  the  villages 
of  Matlock  Bridge  and  Matlock  Bath  hang- 
ing on  the  precipitous  sides  and  looking  like 
bits  from  Tyrol. 

Rowsley  is  a  little  dark  group  of  stone 
houses  lying  together  in  the  hollow,  and  it 
is  not  until  we  had  left  the  train  that  we  saw 
how  broad  the  valley  had  grown  since  we 
looked  out  on  Matlock  Bridge,  or  how  much 


Among  English  Inns 

more  smiling  the  soft  green  hills  became  when 
topped  with  purple  at  the  twilight  hour. 

It  is  but  a  step  down  the  road  from  the 
station  to  the  Peacock  Inn,  a  hostelry  noted 
all  over  England.  The  house  was  built  as  a 
hunting-lodge  for  the  Dukes  of  Rutland. 
The  date  above  the  door  is  1552.  Ivy  climbs 
all  over  the  porch,  sparing  only  the  carved 
peacock  which  crowns  the  top.  It  drapes  with 
its  shining  green  the  stone  casements,  and  even 
encroaches  upon  the  roof.  The  entrance-hall 
is  low  and  square,  with  those  decorations  of 
rods  and  guns  so  dear  to  the  sportsman.  The 
serious  old  lady  who  came  forward  to  inquire 
our  wishes  had  all  the  airs  and  graces  of  a 
duchess.  Her  black  silk  gown,  her  lace  collar, 
and  her  lack  of  the  usual  hostess's  welcoming 
smile  rather  disturbed  even  Polly's  assurance. 
She  heard  our  names,  acknowledged  our  tele- 
gram, and  waved  us  off  to  the  care  of  a  maid, 
who,  quite  as  seriously  as  her  mistress,  con- 
ducted us  to  our  sitting-room. 

Polly  as  usual  recovered  first  from  the  chill, 
and  began  to  order  about  the  maid  in  her 
haughtiest  manner,  a  proceeding  which  had 
the  desired  effect.  All  our  small  belongings 
were  carried  humbly  before  her  when  she 
went  to  select  the  bedrooms, 

134 


Peacock  Inn 

"The  flowers  at  least  are  giving  us  warm 
greeting,"  remarked  the  Matron,  as  she  looked 
out  through  glass  doors  upon  the  beautiful 
garden,  skilfully  hidden  from  the  road  by 
a  stone  wall  and  tall  shrubs  and  trees.  We 
had  not  even  suspected  there  was  a  garden 
as  we  passed  on  our  way  from  the  station. 
The  twilight  was  shedding  a  misty  spell  over 
the  great  clumps  of  many-coloured  flowers 
with  which  the  smooth  lawn  was  broken,  and 
the  maid,  less  stolid  since  Polly  had  disci- 
plined her,  was  laying  the  cloth  for  our  din- 
ner, so  we  wandered  out  upon  the  gravelled 
path,  dow^n  to  the  river  which  bathes  the  foot 
of  the  garden. 

"  Which  is  this,  the  Wye  or  the  Derwent?  " 
demanded  the  Matron. 

"  You  won't  know  this  evening,"  answered 
Polly,  "  for  the  maid,  of  course,  can't  tell,  and 
I  wont  ask  the  Duchess." 

"  The  Wye  goes  in  detached  pieces  all  over 
the  map  of  England,  so  we  will  say  it  is  the 
Wye  until  we  know  better,"  decided  the  In- 
valid. 

That  satisfied  the  Matron  for  the  moment, 
and  the  little  murmuring  stream,  no  wider 
than  a  brook,  went  whispering  over  its  stones 
indifferent  to  a  name,  the  water  so  clear  that. 


Among  English  Inns 

even  in  the  fading  light,  we  could  see  tiny 
fishes  darting  about.  It  curved  away  here 
at  the  edge  of  the  garden  walk,  then  ran  under 
two  bridges  and  thickly  clustering  trees,  an 
ideal  spot  for  a  poetic  fisherman.  Somewhere 
beyond  our  sight  the  Derwent  went  bustling 
along,  and  the  two  waters  met  on  the  other 
side  of  the  town,  before  a  charming  little 
house,  to  tell  each  other  all  the  gossip  they 
have  gathered  in  their  long  running. 

The  moon  came  up  and  joined  herself  to 
the  picture  before  we  went  in  to  our  dinner, 
and  the  next  morning  all  the  fog  and  mist  had 
vanished,  leaving  only  a  few  diamonds  on 
the  rose-petals  in  the  garden. 

We  were  ofif  for  Haddon  Hall  before  the 
trippers  arrived  from  Bakewell,  or  the  first 
tourist  train  from  the  north  had  discharged 
its  sightseers.  The  walk  is  from  the  Peacock, 
through  the  straggling  village  street,  and  then 
over  the  fields  until  suddenly  Haddon  Hall 
shows  itself  among  the  trees,  breaking  the  side 
of  the  thickly  wooded  hill. 

So  much  has  been  written  and  said  of  this 
ancient  dwelling-place  of  peaceful  noblemen, 
untouched  since  the  finishing  touches  were 
put  to  the  last  building  in  1696,  that  any  de- 
scription is  only  an  oft-repeated  tale.     The 

136 


Peacock  Inn 

race  of  Vernons  of  Haddon  Hall  was  a  race 
of  wise,  politic  men,  men  who  knew  how  to 
capture  heiresses,  and  always  to  keep  on  the 
right  side  in  royal  disturbances.  They  built 
their  home  for  peace,  not  war,  and  war  left 
them  unmolested. 

Haddon  Hall  is  a  striking  example  of  how 
the  inequalities  of  a  hillside  may  be  turned 
to  the  greatest  advantage  in  architecture. 
Walls  that  sink  low  in  the  foreground,  towers 
and  battlements  that  start  up  in  the  back- 
ground, a  broad  terrace  looking  over  a  green 
precipice  at  the  side,  and  a  wide  gateway  by 
which  the  upper  courtyard  was  entered  from 
the  road  at  the  hilltop.  This  is  how  Haddon 
was  built.  Great  forest  trees  grow  above,  be- 
hind, and  on  all  sides  of  the  Hall,  while  down 
from  the  walls  to  the  roadside  roll  billowy 
meadow-lands. 

We  were  the  first  sightseers  to  arrive. 
There  was  not  a  tourist  in  sight  when  we  paid 
our  fee  of  fourpence,  and  were  admitted  into 
the  first  courtyard.  The  keeper's  daughters, 
very  bright,  intelligent-looking  girls,  were 
preparing  for  the  day  as  we  entered,  arrang- 
ing the  photographs  and  guide-books  for  sale 
on  the  table  under  the  gateway. 

"  I  think  you  ladies  may  wander  on  by  your- 
137 


Among  English  Inns 

selves,  if  you  choose,"  said  the  elder  girl,  smil- 
ing. *'  You  would  not  scribble  on  the  walls, 
I  am  sure." 

"  Not  unless  our  name  were  Pummel,"  mut- 
tered Polly,  with  recollections  of  Winchester. 

The  girl  promised  to  join  us  before  we  got 
to  any  locked  doors,  and  cautioned  us  about 
the  dangerous  stairways,  so  we  strolled  about 
the  bare  rooms  around  the  lower  courtyard; 
into  the  chapel,  the  old  kitchens,  and  the  great 
dining-hall  with  its  raised  dais,  where  old- 
time  feasts  were  held,  and  where  at  Christmas 
the  monstrous  Yule  log  burned  in  the  great 
chimney,  and  peacocks  were  served  dressed  in 
their  feathers,  with  their  proud  tails  spread 
over  the  roasted  flesh;  where  the  boar's  head 
was  carried  high,  and  followed  by  a  long 
train  of  pages. 

The  Vernons  built  the  Hall  at  Haddon  as 
they  needed  it,  putting  up  here  a  set  of  cham- 
bers, there  a  lady's  bower,  and  again  a  tower 
when  they  wanted  space  for  pages.  They 
began  to  build  the  present  structure  in  1070, 
and  the  south  aisle  of  the  chapel,  together 
with  portions  of  the  wall  along  the  south 
front,  remain  to  show  what  was  done  before 
1300.  Then  the  great  hall  and  kitchens  were 
built,  and  the  upper  court  began  to  grow. 

138 


Peacock  Inn 

Before  1470  the  east  part  of  the  chapel  and 
the  east  side  of  the  upper  court  were  finished. 
Between  that  date  and  1550  the  inside  of  the 
building  under  the  long  gallery  was  finished, 
including  the  enchanting  little  dining-room, 
carved  and  wainscoted  to  the  very  top,  where 
are  to  be  seen  the  portraits  of  King  Henry 
VII.,  his  queen,  and  his  jester,  Will  Somers, 
carved  in  the  wainscot.  The  west  range  of 
buildings  was  put  up  and  the  west  end  of  the 
north  range  built  at  this  same  period. 

By  1524,  the  entire  outside  of  the  Hall  was 
finished.  Sir  John  Manners,  the  husband  of 
Dorothy  Vernon,  finished  the  ballroom,  not- 
withstanding the  romantic  legend  that  makes 
him  steal  away  that  fair  lady  during  a  dance 
in  this  same  apartment.  He  even  built  the 
steps  down  which  she  is  said  to  have  eloped. 
Being  a  most  eligible  match,  a  husband  of 
whom  her  father  thoroughly  approved,  it  is 
not  in  the  least  likely  that  she  had  to  run  away 
at  all. 

This  ballroom  —  the  long  gallery  as  it  is 
called  —  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  rooms 
in  England.  The  crest  of  the  Manners  first 
appears  here,  where  on  the  frieze  the  peacock 
alternates  with  the  boar's  head,  the  rose  and 
the  thistle. 

139 


Among  English  Inns 

The  great  square  recesses  of  the  many- 
paned  windows  look  out  at  an  enchanting  view 
across  the  loveliest  terrace  known  to  artists. 
Out  of  die  great  gallery  is  the  bedchamber 
consecrated  to  Queen  Elizabeth.  We  be- 
lieved firmly  in  the  relics  of  her  visit,  even  to 
an  ingenious  wash-list  said  to  have  been  used 
by  her.  Whoever  owned  this  laundry-list 
wore  ^'  shirtes  and  half-shirtes "  and  regis- 
tered the  number  sent  to  be  washed  on  a  disk 
very  like  a  perpetual  calendar,  a  most  clever 
contrivance  in  a  day  when  writing  was  not 
popular. 

With  the  exception  of  a  few  pieces  of  furni- 
ture in  this  wing,  Haddon  is  completely  dis- 
mantled. Fine  old  tapestries  hang  on  the 
walls,  and  in  some  places  have  furnished  many 
a  meal  for  the  all-devouring  moth.  The 
great-great-grandson  of  Dorothy  Vernon  de- 
serted Haddon  to  make  his  home  at  Belvoir 
when  he  became  Duke  of  Rutland  by  the  fail- 
ure of  heirs  in  direct  line.  It  is  said  that  the 
inconvenience  of  the  various  stairways  at 
Haddon  led  to  the  final  desertion  of  the  Hall 
as  a  place  of  residence.  Many  of  the  apart- 
ments are  quite  exposed,  and  most  inconve- 
nient, but,  with  the  maze  of  rooms  which  lead 
out  one  from  another,  and  the  lack  of  corri- 

140 


Peacock  Inn 

dors,    these   outside   staircases    are   the   only 
means  of  entrance  to  many  of  the  apartments. 

"  Haddon  would  make  a  delightful  home, 
I  am  sure,"  was  the  comment  of  the  Matron, 
but  so  much  restoring  would  be  necessary  to 
make  the  Hall  habitable  that  its  present 
perfect  character  might  then  be  entirely 
destroyed.  We  felt,  after  a  few  hours  in  the 
old  place,  that  it  was  better  to  reconstruct  it  in 
our  imagination  than  to  have  any  part  of  the 
ancient  buildings  touched  by  modern  hands. 

We  walked  slowly  back  under  the  oaks  of 
the  park,  along  the  banks  of  the  Wye  to  Rows- 
ley,  and  by  following  the  little  stream  to 
its  meeting-place  with  the  Derwent  discov- 
ered which  one  of  the  rivers  murmured  along 
below  the  garden  of  the  Peacock. 

"  I  knew  it  was  the  gentle  Wye.  The  rush- 
ing Derwent  of  Matlock  Bridge  could  not 
change  its  temper  so  suddenly,"  said  Polly. 

It  is  quite  possible  to  walk  from  Haddon 
to  Chatsworth  across  the  hill,  but  we  had 
lingered  at  Haddon  until  long  after  lunch- 
hour,  so  we  decided  to  leave  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire's  great  place  until  the  following 
day. 

"  And  we  may  escape  the  crowd  if  we  go 
early." 

141 


Among  English  Inns 

Our  brilliant  garden  at  the  Peacock,  little 
Grey  Rowsley  village,  and  the  broad  moor 
on  the  hilltop  beyond  the  railway  station, 
served  to  fill  our  afternoon  hours  with  occu- 
pation and  pleasure. 

From  the  steep  road  which  winds  up  the 
hillside  to  Beeley  Moor  there  were  lovely 
views.  Haddon  Hall,  its  slender,  gray,  square 
towers  and  graceful  lines,  were  visible  among 
the  dark  oak-trees  of  the  hill  on  our  right,  the 
great  white  Chatsworth  Palace  far  away  lay 
in  the  lowland  on  our  left,  with  the  magnifi- 
cent undulating  park  spreading  about  on  all 
sides  over  hill  and  dale. 

The  clouds  hung  low  on  Beeley  Moor  late 
in  the  afternoon  when  we  finally  climbed  to 
the  hilltop,  but  great  patches  of  yellow  furze 
spread  over  the  rough  ground  like  waves 
of  warm  sunshine.  When  we  left  Rowsley 
for  Hardwick  the  following  day,  we  rode 
across  this  high  moorland,  by  the  road  poor 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scotland,  followed  often 
with  Bess  of  Shrewsbury!  That  lady  was 
too  jealous  of  her  lord,  when  she  looked 
after  her  building  at  the  new  hall  at  Hard- 
wick, to  leave  the  fair  prisoner  with  him  alone 
at  Chatsworth. 

Early  though  it  was  when  we  got  to  Chats- 
142 


Peacock  Inn 

worth,  before  the  hour  named  in  the  guide- 
book as  the  opening  time,  we  were  not  the 
first  arrivals.  A  great  "  charry-bang,"  as  the 
natives  called  this  particular  sort  of  convey- 
ance, had  disgorged  a  party  of  twenty  trip- 
pers. Heaven  knows  where  they  had  fallen 
from,  but  they  were  good  British  subjects  of 
the  tradesman  class,  each  armed  with  a  shil- 
ling to  buy  an  admission  ticket,  and  with  a 
store  of  stolid  admiration  which  would  find 
no  outlet  in  unnecessary  words. 

A  gorgeous  Mr.  Bumble,  in  gold  lace  and 
bright  cloth,  looked  at  us  all  condescendingly 
through  the  grating  of  the  entrance  portal 
until  the  clock  struck  the  time  of  admittance, 
when  he  kindly  opened  the  gates  and  amiably 
took  our  shillings.  He  then  marched  us  away 
over  the  court,  and  delivered  us  silently  into 
the  hands  of  a  solemn-looking  housekeeper, 
who  trotted  the  whole  party  quickly  through 
the  mansion.  Not  a  glimpse  did  we  get  of 
the  treasures  we  knew  to  be  in  Chatsworth, 
and  which  we  really  longed  to  see. 

Claude  Lorraine's  wonderful  sketch-book 
was  locked  up  at  the  library.  We  only  peeked 
through  a  glass  door,  and  most  of  the  orig- 
inal sketches  by  great  masters,  over  which  we 


143 


Among  English  Inns 

longed  to  linger,  were  covered  with  linen 
curtains. 

'"Ah,  that!  ''The  Burgermaster "  it's 
called,  by  Rembrank,  I  believe.  It  ain't 
nothink  much!  Only  a  work  of  h'art!  Not 
one  of  the  family,  you  know,'  "  quoted  Polly 
from  Punch,  while  we  halt  at  malachite  tables 
"  from  the  Czar  of  Russia  to  the  duke,"  New 
Zealand  canoe  presented  "  the  late  duke,"  and 
portraits  of  race-horses  of  the  duke's  stables, 
which  the  housekeeper-shepherdess,  with  the 
good  English  flock  at  her  heels,  halts  long  and 
lovingly  to  gaze  upon. 

"  Given  to  the  duke  by  the  Emperor  of 
Russia."     Ah-h-h-h! 

"  Won  a  great  race  for  the  duke."    Oh-o-o! 

"  Sent  to  the  duke  by  the  savages!  "  Eh-e-el 

The  shepherdess  had  a  lesson,  and  she  said 
it  well,  without  changing  a  word. 

Polly  indulged  in  low-spoken  criticism  on 
the  great,  sprawling  frescoes. 

The  Invalid  objected  to  the  excessive  dis- 
play of  carved  woodwork. 

The  Matron  had  to  be  dragged  away  from 
a  Landseer  picture. 

Altogether  my  party  was  troublesome,  and 
not  properly  impressed  by  the  magnificence 
of  this  great  palace. 

144 


Peacock  Inn 

After  racing  us  through  the  house,  the 
shepherdess  delivered  her  sheep  into  the  hands 
of  a  shepherd,  who  steered  us  around  the  great 
gardens  ("jardeen,"  he  pronounced  the 
word).  He  pointed  out  every  tree  planted 
by  royalty,  while  the  Matron  made  disparag- 
ing remarks  about  the  architectural  beauties 
of  Chatsworth  House,  and  the  Invalid  ad- 
mired the  gilded  window-frames.  My  com- 
panions were  not  at  all  in  the  proper  spirit, 
and  I  was  glad  to  get  them  out  of  the  gate  of 
this  innermost  sanctuary,  into  which  hordes 
of  sightseers  were  waiting  their  turn  for  ad- 
mission. Dog-carts  and  carriages,  drags,  a 
couple  of  motor-cars,  and  bicycles  by  the 
score  were  waiting,  and  more  were  coming 
over  the  road  down  the  hill. 

"  Think  of  the  shillings  Bumble  will  col- 
lect!" sighed  mercenary  Polly. 

As  we  had  assuredly  walked  several  miles 
while  we  stared  at  "  The  Duke's  "  possessions 
for  nearly  two  hours,  we  were  ready  for 
luncheon. 

The  park  at  Chatsworth  is  a  great  natural 
tract  of  woodland  and  meadow  sweeps.  The 
Derwent  goes  rushing  through,  falling  down 
artificial  weirs,  and  watering  the  banks  of  a 
great  rabbit  city,  where  little  cottontails  frisk 

H5 


Among  English  Inns 

about  under  the  very  feet  of  the  fallow 
deer. 

We  made  our  way  to  the  Devonshire  Arms 
just  outside  of  the  gate  of  the  park,  but  the 
number  of  vehicles  about  the  door  made  the 
Invalid  stop  short  and  declare  she  would 
never  make  one  of  that  crowd. 

"  We  sha'n't  get  anything  decent." 

"  And  be  charged  three  shillings  for  it," 
said  the  Treasurer. 

"  I  saw  a  dear  little  cottage  back  in  the 
park,  with  a  '  Tea '  sign  hung  out,"  the  Ma- 
tron told  us. 

So  back  we  went  to  the  dear  little  cottage 
buried  in  flowers.  There  was  no  perceptible 
path  leading  to  the  door,  but  we  ran  down 
one  green  bank  and  up  another  into  the  gar- 
den. A  cheery  woman  offered  us  tea,  eggs, 
some  cold  ham,  bread,  butter,  and  jam,  a  feast 
which  we  devoured  among  the  sunflowers  and 
dahlias,  and  paid  one  whole  shilling  each  for 
our  pastoral  luncheon. 

After  this  we  passed  on  our  way  to  Eden- 
sor,  a  modern  village  built  for  those  employed 
on  the  estate.  Within  its  church  lies  buried 
that  Earl  of  Shrewsbury  who  was  the  keeper 
of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  and  the  husband  of 
Bess  of  Hardwick.     His  tomb  is  a  most  re- 

146 


Peacock  Inn 

markable  construction,  erected  by  his  lady  to 
his  memory  and  to  that  of  his  brother.  Not 
content  with  henpecking  the  earl  as  long  as 
he  lived,  and  of  turning  him  out  of  his  own 
mansion  that  she  might  bestow  it  upon  her 
sons,  in  death  she  denuded  him  even  of  his 
flesh.  He  lies  in  effigy,  a  bare  skeleton,  while 
his  brother  is  wrapped  in  a  marble  winding 
sheet.  The  state  robes  and  armour,  carved 
in  stone,  hang  by  the  side  of  the  tomb.  The 
shrewish  countess  cannot  disturb  the  earl's 
last  sleep  in  Edensor  unless  she  comes  a  long 
w^ay.  Her  body  lies  buried  in  Derby.  Eden- 
sor church  is  a  specimen  of  the  ugliest  archi- 
tecture of  1867.  It  replaces  one  that  was  built 
in  1545,  which  was  taken  down  to  make  way 
for  the  present  very  commonplace  structure. 
The  surroundings  of  Chatsworth  House 
will  ever  be  interesting  as  associated  with 
the  ill-fated  Mary  of  Scotland.  The  great 
oaks  looked  down  on  the  weary  walks  of  the 
captive  queen,  and  the  bubbling  river  echoed 
her  sighs.  The  old  mansion  in  which  she 
was  confined  was  destroyed  by  fire.  Mary 
was  kept  there  many  years,  her  only  excite- 
ment being  intrigue  and  flirtations  with  her 
jailor,  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbury.  Nature  and 
education  had  done  everything  to  make  Mary 

147 


Among  English  Inns 

irresistible  to  the  male  sex,  and  she  kept  the 
Shrewsbury  household  in  a  state  of  commo- 
tion which  was  not  conducive  to  her  own  com- 
fort, and  rendered  life  miserable  indeed  for 
the  earl. 

Our  shortest  way  back  to  Rowsley  was  along 
the  river-bank,  where  we  saw  the  trout  in 
the  stream,  and  the  frisking  rabbits,  which 
are  so  tame  that  they  do  not  even  skurry  away 
to  their  warrens  as  we  pass  by.  We  managed 
to  spend  our  entire  day  in  the  park,  and  en- 
joyed every  moment,  although  we  all  agreed 
that  the  great  palace  interested  us  less  than 
was  altogether  proper  for  right-minded  tour- 
ists. 

"  The  house  looks  to  me  like  an  overgrown 
piece  of  furniture,"  criticized  the  Invalid, 
with  her  bold  and  republican  air. 


148 


^'^ 


CHAPTER   VI 

HARDWICK  INN 

HE  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  Devon- 
shire are  in  Scot- 
land," was  what  the 


Invalid   read   reverently  and   inter- 


estedly from  the  court  news. 

"  Then  we  can  visit  Hardwick  Hall.  How 
shall  we  get  there?  "  asked  the  Matron. 

"  By  driving,"  was  the  reply  of  the  busy 
Treasurer.  "  The  distance  is  about  ten  miles. 
It  will  cost  us  about  four  shillings  or  less  each. 
We  could  go  by  train,  but  that  would  not 
be  so  pleasant.  We  should  then  be  obliged 
to  go  back  over  our  way  here  to  Ambergate, 
change  there,  and  then  go  over  the  other  side 
of  the  triangle  to  Mansfield,  wait  there  for  a 

149 


Anio7ig  English  Inns 

train  to  Hardwick,  and  when  we  get  to  the 
Hardwick  station  we  should  still  be  two  miles 
from  the  inn.  As  I  have  planned  it,  we  can 
start  from  here  to-morrow  at  about  ten  o'clock, 
and  we  shall  be  at  Chesterfield  in  time  for 
luncheon.  I  have  wired  to  the  Hardwick 
Inn,  and  the  landlord  will  meet  us  at  Ches- 
terfield and  take  us  over  the  rest  of  the 
road." 

"  As  you  have  evidently  settled  all  the  plans, 
we  shall  be  content  with  your  decision,"  said 
the  Matron. 

Polly's  plans  were  good.  The  sun  shone 
for  us,  the  air  was  neither  too  warm  nor  too 
cool,  and  we  drove  away  over  the  moor  in  a 
comfortable  carriage.  The  driver  com- 
plained of  the  condition  of  the  road,  which, 
to  our  American  eyes,  seemed  not  at  all  bad, 
for  it  is  a  wild  district.  A  lonely  farmhouse 
among  desolate-looking  fields  now  and  then 
broke  the  monotony  of  the  scene.  The  whole 
of  the  moorland  was  fenced  ofif  by  stone  walls, 
but  furze  and  bracken  were  the  principal 
crops  we  saw  until  we  got  to  the  edge  of  the 
plateau  beyond  the  Red  Lion  Inn.  Here  the 
high  ground  fell  away  suddenly  and  a  smiling 
plain  appeared,  and  the  road  goes  down-hill 
nearly  all  the  way  thence  until  the  twisted 

150 


Hardwick  Inn 

steeple  which  distinguishes  Chesterfield  came 
in  sight. 

"  They  say  the  devil  twisted  it,"  was  what 
our  driver  volunteered,  in  answer  to  our  ex- 
clamations. 

"  It  looks  like  the  devil,"  murmured  our 
wittiest  member,  irreverently. 

Chesterfield  is  an  ugly  town,  as  ugly  as  its 
great  church  and  twisted  steeple.  There  was 
nothing  to  interest  us  there,  and  rougher- 
looking  men  and  women  we  had  seen  nowhere 
in  the  English  country. 

The  road  from  Chesterfield  to  Hardwick 
is  a  broad  highway,  leading  through  the  coal- 
mining district  of  Scarsdale.  It  is  the  only 
road  in  our  travels  on  which  we  saw  untidy 
homes,  squalid  children,  and  dreary,  flower- 
less,  bare  yards  before  the  cottages.  Low  hills 
covered  with  green  were  in  the  distance,  but 
nearer  to  us  were  chimneys  belching  forth 
smoke  and  flame,  great  heaps  of  coal-dust, 
and  villainous-looking  tramps.  We  had  for- 
gotten the  existence  of  such  creatures  in  our 
rural  wanderings. 

It  was  a  relief  when  we  left  the  broad  high- 
way for  the  narrow,  wooded  road,  where 
Hardwick  Hall  soon  showed  itself,  its  many 


151 


Among  English  Inns 

windows  shining  upon  us   from  among  the 
trees  on  the  hilltop. 

The  inn  guards  one  gate  of  the  park.  It 
is  as  secluded  and  sequestered  as  though  there 
were  no  collieries  within  a  thousand  miles. 
A  very  old  hostelry  it  is,  and  belongs  to  the 
Duke  of  Devonshire.  The  bright  little  sit- 
ting-room and  four  or  five  good  bedrooms  are 
charmingly  furnished  in  modern  style  for  the 
guests  at  the  Hall,  which  is  not  large.  The 
Duchess  of  Devonshire  sometimes  finds  it  con- 
venient to  send  the  gentlemen  of  a  house-party 
here  to  sleep  when  her  own  stately  bedrooms 
are  quite  full. 

We  were  very  fortunate  to  time  our  arrival 
when  the  Hall  is  vacant;  so  the  innkeeper's 
wife  tells  us.  When  the  duke  is  not  in  resi- 
dence, his  sister,  Lady  Louisa  Egerton,  often 
occupies  the  house,  and  then  no  visitors  arc 
allowed  to  see  the  delightful  interior.  We 
were  more  than  glad,  because,  next  to  Had- 
don,  dismantled,  old  Hardwick,  almost  un- 
touched since  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
and  full  of  remembrances  of  the  remarkable 
woman  who  built  it,  is  one  of  the  Halls  we  had 
most  desired  to  visit. 

A  curving  avenue  leads  to  the  Hall  from 
the  gate  of  the  inn,  but  there  is  a  short  cut 

152 


Hardwick  Inn 

climbing  by  grassy  steps  up  the  steep  hillside. 
The  park  is  dotted  thick  with  ancient  oak- 
trees,  their  withered  branches  standing  out 
sad  and  solemn  against  the  sky.  The  duke 
will  not  allow  the  leafless  boughs  to  be  lopped 
off.  He  rightly  thinks  they  suit  the  ancient 
park. 

Hardwick  Hall,  "  more  windows  than 
wall,"  stands  surrounded  by  a  courtyard,  and 
isolated  from  the  green  lawns  of  the  estate 
by  a  high  wall  resembling  the  house  in  its 
architecture.  It  is  square  and  solid,  with  the 
spearlike  ornaments  so  fashionable  in  Tudor 
days  decorating  the  top.  The  interior  of  the 
courtyard  is  a  bright  carpet  of  flowers  spread 
before  the  noble  entrance.  The  letters  E.  S., 
with  which  the  Countess  of  Shrewsbury  orna- 
mented the  top  of  the  towers,  and  which  stand 
out  clear  against  the  sky,  are  repeated  by  the 
skill  of  the  gardener  in  the  flower-beds  of 
the  courtyard. 

Very  near,  outside  the  enclosure,  are  the 
ivy-grown  ruins  of  the  house  in  which  the 
builder  of  the  present  Hall  was  born.  It  is 
the  old  Hardwick  Hall,  the  dwelling-place 
of  Elizabeth's  ancestors,  and  which  she  dis- 
mantled and  tore  down  in  order  to  get  mate- 
rials for  the  more  modern   structure.     The 

153 


Among  English  Inns 

Countess  of  Shrewsbury  not  only  had  the 
building  mania,  but  she  was  filled  with  dread 
of  death  should  she  cease  erecting  walls.  A 
soothsayer  had  told  her  that  when  she  stopped 
building  she  would  stop  living,  and,  strange 
to  say,  she  died  when  the  frost  of  winter  once 
kept  her  workmen  idle.  To  be  sure,  she  was 
then  at  the  ripe  age  of  eighty-seven. 

"  Quite  a  proper  age  to  die,"  observed  the 
Invalid. 

Hardwick  Hall  was  built  at  the  time  when 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  was  detained  at  Chats- 
worth,  but  it  was  not  finished  until  after  her 
execution.  One  of  the  chambers  is  furnished 
with  hangings  said  to  be  embroidered  by  that 
unhappy  captive,  and  the  bed  and  other  ob- 
jects in  the  apartment  are  purported  to  have 
been  used  by  her.  They  may  have  been  re- 
moved here  from  the  Chatsworth  House. 
Possibly  the  chamber  might  have  been  pre- 
pared before  the  Hall  was  finished.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  Mary  often  rode  over  here  with  the 
countess  while  the  building  was  in  progress. 
In  the  entrance-hall  of  Hardwick  there  is  a 
marble  statue  of  Mary  and  a  screen  which  is 
pointed  out  as  a  specimen  of  her  needlework. 

This  hall  is  adorned  with  a  fine  mantelpiece 
of  the  (parget)   raised  stucco,  so  popular  in 

154 


Hardwick  Inn 

Elizabeth's  day.  All  over  the  mansion  there 
are  examples  of  the  very  best  style  of  this  kind 
of  ornamentation.  In  the  great  hall  appear 
the  Hardwick  arms  supported  by  two  stags, 
while  in  the  presence-chamber  there  is  a 
wonderful  parget  frieze.  It  represents  a  hunt 
of  Diana  and  her  nymphs.  Not  only  are  there 
stags,  but  all  sorts  of  astonishing  animals, 
known  and  unknown,  lingering  under  mar- 
vellous trees  until  the  huntress  shall  choose 
to  pursue  them.  This  splendid  work  is  col- 
oured, and  extends  all  around  a  room  which 
is  sixty-five  feet  long.  Great  square  bay- 
windows  break  the  design  on  one  side.  But, 
wherever  it  is  possible  to  find  space  between 
them,  a  tree  fifteen  feet  high  spreads  its 
branches  over  an  elephant  about  the  size  of 
a  stag,  or  the  eager  huntress  is  seen,  sur- 
rounded by  her  dogs,  pictured  quite  as  big 
as  the  elephants. 

Throughout  the  mansion  the  furniture  of 
the  period  when  the  Hall  was  first  used  as  a 
dwelling  is  still  preserved,  and  the  chairs  and 
tables  are  all  fine  specimens  of  the  taste  of 
the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

The  great  picture-gallery  extends  the  whole 
length  of  the  front,  one  hundred  and  sixty- 
six  feet.    The  windows  in  this  gallery  are  said 


Among  English  Inns 

to  contain  twenty-seven  thousand  panes  of 
glass. 

"How  ever  do  they  get  them  washed?" 
asked  our  practical  housekeeper,  the  Matron. 
That  feat  is  evidently  accomplished.  They 
were  clean  and  shining  enough  for  us  to  see 
that  the  portraits  were  hung  over  the  superb 
old  tapestry  as  if  it  were  the  commonest  of 
wall-paper. 

"  Do  you  suppose  Queen  Elizabeth  gave 
her  portrait  to  everybody  at  her  court? " 
queried  the  Invalid,  as  she  studied  attentively 
a  picture  of  that  overdressed  virgin. 

"  No,  Queen  Elizabeth  was  not  so  extrav- 
agant," answered  Polly,  promptly.  "  She 
took,  she  did  not  give.  She  allowed  her  sub- 
jects to  order  portraits  of  her  from  the  great 
artists,  and  she  kindly  consented  to  sit.  Thus 
did  she  patronize  art."  How  Polly  knew  all 
this  Elizabethan  gossip,  we  did  not  question. 
Polly  knows  everything,  that  we  do  not  dis- 
pute. 

The  memory  of  the  unfortunate  Arabella 
Stuart  is  inseparably  connected  with  Hard- 
wick  Hall.  The  Countess  of  Shrewsbury  was 
her  grandmother.  Arabella's  mother  was  the 
most  amiable  of  daughters,  and  it  was  by  force 
of  maternal  ambition  that  she  was  married  to 

,56 


Hardwick  Inn 

a  younger  brother  of  Lord  Darnley,  and  a 
possible  heir  to  the  Scottish  crown.  This 
prince,  who  had  been  sadly  neglected  all 
during  his  youth,  was  on  his  way  to  Scotland, 
where  his  mother,  who  had  married  in  Eng- 
land, was  taking  him  to  get  a  wife.  The 
party  got  no  farther  than  Hardwick  Hall. 
Bess  made  their  sojourn  so  pleasant  that  she 
captured  the  young  man  for  her  own  daugh- 
ter, and  in  1575  little  Arabella  Stuart  was 
born. 

Her  life  here  with  her  grandmother  was 
far  from  pleasant.  Queen  Elizabeth  had  been 
perfectly  beside  herself  with  rage  when  Bess 
married  her  daughter,  Elizabeth  Cavendish, 
to  one  of  the  Stuarts,  and  it  was  only  after 
many  attempts  that  the  queen  had  taken  her 
subject  again  into  partial  favour.  When  Ara- 
bella was  born,  the  queen  especially  stipulated 
that  the  child  should  never  be  allowed  to 
marry. 

Little  Arabella  was  painted  as  a  child  here 
at  Hardwick,  and  her  picture  hangs  with  the 
other  notabilities  In  the  long  gallery. 

"  Bess  may  have  been  able  to  build  lovely 
houses,  but  she  certainly  did  not  know  how  to 
dress  this  unfortunate  baby,"  declared  the 
Invalid. 

157 


Among  English  Inns 

The  little  girl  is  represented  in  a  brocade 
of  pink  flowers  and  green  leaves.  The  dress 
has  great,  stiff  sleeves  confined  by  bracelets 
at  the  wrists,  and  covered  with  an  ugly  cape 
of  the  same  material  coming  up  high  about 
the  neck.  A  hideous  pompadour  of  false  red 
hair  crowns  her  pathetic  little  face,  and  on 
a  chain  she  wears  a  pendant  in  the  shape  of 
a  heart  surmounted  by  a  coronet.  The  device, 
"Four  parvenir  '/endure''  the  poor  little  soul 
surely  never  chose  for  herself,  although  she 
lived  up  to  it,  alas! 

"  It  sounds  like  an  inspiration  of  her  grand- 
mamma," was  Polly's  theory,  "  and  the  poor 
little  girl  did  endure,  but  her  arrival  was 
misery." 

This  grandmamma,  Bess  of  Hardwick,  had 
managed  before  her  death  to  marry  four  rich 
husbands,  and  to  persuade  them  to  give  her 
all  their  possessions,  to  the  exclusion  of  their 
own  children.  She  was  not  beautiful,  she 
was  masculine  and  domineering,  although 
she  is  said  to  have  been  witty.  That  she  was 
not  strong  in  book-learning  is  revealed  by  her 
ingenious  way  of  spelling  "  orcus"  meaning 
horses.  She  was  a  builder,  a  buyer  and  seller 
of  estates,  a  money-lender,  a  farmer,  and  a 
merchant  of  lead,  coals,  and  timber;  she  was 

158 


Hardwick  Inn 

of  masculine  understanding  and  conduct, 
proud,  furious,  selfish,  and  unfeeling.  Such 
was  the  grandmother  with  whom  the  child, 
who  had  inherited  the  afifectionate  disposition 
of  her  mother,  was  forced  to  pass  all  her 
young  days.  Arabella  was  sweet  and  pliable, 
but  she  hated  the  constant  hunting  and  feast- 
ing in  which  her  grandmother  delighted. 
She  loved  books  and  learning,  read  the  Greek 
Testament  in  the  original,  and  was  senti- 
mental and  romantic. 

"  Like  most  quiet  women,"  commented  the 
knowing  Matron.  As  none  of  our  party  could 
be  dubbed  quiet,  we  therefore  agreed  with 
the  Matron's  analysis  of  character. 

Arabella's  grandmother  was  enormously 
rich,  her  income  at  the  time  of  her  death  being 
two  hundred  thousand  pounds.  Although  she 
strictly  forbade  "  all  superfleuete  or  waste," 
she  entertained  lavishly,  and  the  unhappy  lit- 
tle Arabella  had  to  sit  on  the  dais  at  the  end 
of  the  great  hall  where  we  entered,  and  keep 
still  through  interminable  courses  of  — 

First,  roast  swans,  venison,  pheasants,  pul- 
lets, pigeons,  and  pasty  tarts  of  divers  hues 
and  sundry  denominations,  followed  by 
mighty  joints,  with  veal  pies,  capons,  black 
cocks,  chickens,  partridges,  and  two  kinds  of 

159 


Among  English  Inns 

bread,  marchpane  and  coarse  cheats,  a  few 
potatoes,  no  other  vegetables,  and  ending  with 
sweets,  jellies  in  shape  of  animals,  trees, 
houses.  A  great  piece  of  sugar-work  repre- 
senting a  fortress,  or  some  such  thing;  con- 
serves of  fruits,  gingerbread,  marmalade,  and 
numerous  comfits. 

With  this  the  guests  drank  ale,  mead,  and 
wine,  served  in  silver  and  sometimes  Venice 
glass,  and  the  feast  was  eaten  in  perfect  si- 
lence. 

Arabella's  romantic  nature  pined  for  love, 
and  she  escaped  the  vigilance  of  her  guardians 
by  secretly  marrying  William  Seymour.  She 
paid  a  bitter  penalty  by  imprisonment  in  the 
Tower,  followed  by  insanity  and  death.  The 
room  she  occupied  at  Hardwick  Hall  is  hung 
with  tapestry,  representing  cupids  guiding  a 
boat  through  smooth  waters,  the  attendants  on 
the  banks  garlanded  with  oak  and  ivy,  and 
following  the  stream. 

''  Poor  Arabella !  This  was  the  only  smooth 
water  her  life  ever  knew." 

In  an  adjoining  room  hangs  a  portrait  of 
Bess  of  Hardwick,  a  sharp-featured  lady,  with 
red  wig,  a  black  dress,  and  thick  ruff,  and  a 
chain  of  magnificent  pearls  around  her  neck. 


1 60 


Hardwick  Inn 

Her  wig  is  topped  by  a  small  black  cap  and 
flowing  veil. 

She  died,  as  the  chronicle  says,  "  continu- 
ally flattered  but  seldom  deceived,  immensely 
rich,  without  a  friend."  She  left,  however, 
this  charming  dwelling-place,  and  her  de- 
scendants have  preserved  it  as  a  perfect  speci- 
men of  one  of  the  most  delightful  treasures  of 
the  Elizabethan  Age. 

The  park  embraces  six  hundred  and  twenty 
acres  of  woodland,  with  broad  sweeps  of 
meadow  on  which  graze  cattle  and  deer. 
There  are  drives,  a  lake,  and  stretches  of  fine 
trees.  Toward  the  side  where  Hardwick  Inn 
lies,  close  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  the  ground 
falls  from  the  Hall  steeply  down  to  the  oak- 
bordered  lake;  but  above,  where  the  house 
stands,  is  a  broad  plateau  covered  by  the 
greater  extent  of  the  park. 

The  fine  stables  built  by  Bess  of  Hardwick 
are  still  used  by  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  who 
often  houses  his  race-horses  here. 

Thomas  Hobbes,  a  philosopher,  who  was 
afraid  of  the  dark,  was  a  member  of  the  house- 
hold during  the  life  of  Bess  of  Shrewsbury. 
He  was  tutor  to  her  children,  and  lived  nearly 
all  of  the  ninety-one  years  of  his  life  at  Hard- 
wick, after  he  first  came  there  at  twenty-one 

i6i 


Among  English  Inns 

years  of  age.    His  portrait  hangs  in  the  gal- 
lery. 

The  brightness,  the  beauty,  and  tht  comfort 
of  the  apartments  at  Hardwick  so  enchanted 
the  Invalid  and  the  Matron  that  we  could 
scarcely  get  them  back  to  luncheon  at  the 
inn,  and  they  returned  for  another  look  at  the 
interior  before  four  o'clock  (the  closing 
hour),  while  Polly  and  I  were  wandering 
under  the  trees  in  the  park. 


162 


CHAPTER   VII 


1115:  SMS, 

311111111 


'MiMIlp 


THE  DUKERIES 


ESS  of  Hardwick 
numbers  among  her 
descendants  many  of 
the  most  noble  fami- 
lies of  England. 
Within  riding  distance 
of  the  birthplace  of 
their  ancestress,  the  Duke  of  Portland,  the 
Duke  of  Newcastle,  and  Earl  Manvers,  all 
members  of  the  same  distinguished  family, 
have  those  great  estates  in  and  about  Sher- 
wood Forest,  which  are  embraced  under  the 
title  of  The  Dukeries.  These  great  landed 
properties  were  acquired  by  Bess  during  her 
lifetime.  She  built  one  house  at  Welbeck, 
and  began  another  great  manor  at  Worksop. 
We  drove  the  first  five  miles  from  Hard- 
wick Inn  to  Bolsover  over  a  delightful  coun- 
try road  without  seeing  the  sign  of  a  collier 
anywhere.     For  a  mile  or  more,  after  leav- 

163 


Among  English  Inns 

ing  the  inn,  the  road  goes  through  the  park, 
and  then  past  several  charming  farmhouses 
toward  Bolsover. 

Here  there  is  a  fine  castle  built  by  Sir 
Charles  Cavendish,  one  of  the  sons  of  Bess 
of  Hardwick.  An  old  keep,  dating  from 
Norman  times,  furnished  the  foundations  of 
the  present  house,  and  there  are  also  remains 
in  a  great  riding-school  or  stable  of  some  of 
the  work  done  here  by  King  John. 

Sir  Charles  evidently  admired  his  mother's 
taste  in  architecture,  for  Bolsover  bears  a  close 
resemblance  to  the  Hall  at  Hardwick.  A 
short  distance  from  the  smaller  house,  on  the 
keep,  Sir  Charles  built  a  magnificent  palace 
fronting  a  wide  terrace.  This  was  erected 
for  the  reception  and  entertainment  of  King 
Charles  the  First  and  his  queen.  Within  its 
walls  the  monarch  abode  on  three  occasions, 
and  here  for  the  royal  pleasure  "  rare  Ben 
Jonson "  wrote  his  masque,  "  Love's  Wel- 
come." The  poet  was  master  of  ceremonies 
during  an  entertainment  which  cost  Sir 
Charles  Cavendish  £70,000.  This  splendid 
dwelling-place  for  royalty  was  dismantled  by 
the  Roundheads,  and  has  now  become  one 
of  the  most  picturesque  ruins  in  England. 
The  great  windows  and  doors  are  draped  with 

164 


The  Dukeries 

ivy,  and  stupid  sheep  now  climb  down  the 
ruined  steps  and  browse  along  the  terrace 
where  once  the  gay  courtier  strutted  on  his 
high  heels,  making  love  to  the  simpering 
coquette  of  the  court  of  King  Charles. 

The  Duke  of  Portland  owns  Bolsover,  and 
in  the  ancient  house  first  built  by  Sir  Charles 
no  one  now  is  living.  It  is  in  perfect  repair, 
and  among  other  curious  decorations  is  a 
room  which  the  loyal  Sir  Charles  built  in 
imitation  of  the  Star  Chamber  of  hated  mem- 
ory. 

We  found  that  we  could  only  see  the  inte- 
rior of  the  house  by  means  of  a  ticket  from 
the  agent  of  the  estate,  which  we  had  neg- 
lected to  secure.  Neither  shillings  nor  pence 
(we  did  not  try  pounds)  could  shake  the 
guardian's  sense  of  duty,  so  we  were  forced  to 
content  ourselves  by  staring  at  the  outside  of 
the  windows,  and  by  wandering  about  among 
the  grass-grown  halls  of  the  great  ruins. 

Polly  and  I  almost  slid  down  the  steep  hill 
trying  to  get  to  the  railroad  station,  where  we 
proposed  to  go  to  find  out  for  ourselves  the 
very  best  train  for  Edwinstowe.  We  left  the 
Matron  and  the  Invalid  to  go  back  into  the 
town  and  order  something  we  might  eat  be- 
fore we  started  on  our  journey. 

165 


Among  English  Inns 

Looking  up  from  the  station,  Bolsover 
Castle  resembles  a  captain  of  the  Middle  Ages 
leading  a  straggling  company  of  soldiery. 
Behind  the  tall  pinnacles  and  points  of  the 
house  on  the  keep,  rising  sheer  from  the  top 
of  the  trees  which  cling  to  the  sides  of  the 
precipice,  Bolsover  streams  away  on  the  top 
of  the  ridge,  and  the  many-coloured  roofs 
give  a  motley  air  to  the  crowd.  At  the  end 
trail  stand  two  miserable  corrugated  iron 
huts,  looking  like  shabby  camp  followers. 

We  found  the  Invalid  and  the  Matron  in 
the  village  street  engaged  in  a  heated  discus- 
sion with  the  town  policeman.  They  were 
standing  before  the  Swan  Inn,  which  has  a 
most  enchanting  exterior,  and  is  quoted  as 
the  chief  hostelry  in  Bolsover  by  the  guide- 
books. Yet  the  Matron  had  been  obliged  to 
appeal  to  the  police  to  get  even  such  little 
food  as  we  needed. 

"  Inns  there  are  in  plenty.  We  have  been 
to  them  all,  but  they  only  sell  drink,  not  a 
morsel  of  food,  and  we  are  very  hungry,"  ex- 
plained the  Invalid,  as  she  threw  one  of  her 
appealing  glances  at  the  man.  He  at  once 
breaks  forth  into  offers  of  assistance.  He 
marched  sternly  at  the  head  of  the  party  to  the 
Devonshire  Arms,  gave  a  thundering  knock 

i66 


TJie  Dukeries 

at  the  door,  whereupon  a  trembling  female 
appeared  and  ofifered  to  provide  us  with 
everything  she  had,  —  "  ham  and  eggs  and  a 
little  tea." 

"  Bolsover  lives  on  simple  diet,"  whispered 
Polly  to  me,  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  thought  perhaps  the  policeman  would 
take  us  to  his  home  after  your  fascinating 
appeal,"  said  the  Matron  to  the  Invalid. 

"  Perhaps  he  has  nothing  there  to  eat,  but 
beer,"  answered  the  Invalid,  as  we  mounted 
the  stairs  to  an  uninviting  sitting-room  and 
prepared  to  satisfy  our  longing  for  food. 

"  What  a  horrible  town  to  be  caught  in  at 
night-time,"  said  one. 

"  No  beds,  nothing  to  eat,  and  nobody  here 
but  drinking  miners,"  offered  another. 

"  You  forget  the  policeman,"  put  in  a 
third. 

"  I  can  hardly  bring  myself  to  believe  that 
such  inhospitality  exists  in  England,"  was 
the  sigh  of  the  fourth. 

Bolsover  was  once  a  market-town.  The 
picturesque  old  inns,  the  Swan  and  the  Angel, 
were  in  those  days  not  given  over  entirely,  as 
at  present,  to  the  sale  of  liquid  refreshment. 
The  Devonshire  Arms,  where  we  were  so  un- 
willingly served  with  ham  and  eggs,  is  a  new 

167 


y4mong  English  Inns 

hotel.  Polly  questioned  the  small  red-headed 
servant  who  waited  upon  us,  and  she  said  that 
food  was  seldom  asked  by  the  colliers  and 
their  friends.  There  were  no  lodgings  at  any 
inn  in  the  town. 

We  shook  the  dust  of  inhospitable  Bol- 
sover  gladly  from  our  heels,  as  we  scampered 
down  the  hill  to  the  train.  We  had  enjoyed  a 
fine  ruin,  seen  a  noble  castle,  and  nearly 
starved  to  death.  The  train  we  took  stopped 
at  countless  small  stations;  the  engine  puffed 
and  worked  hard  to  pull  us  up  steep  grades 
before  we  saw  Edwinstowe  in  large  letters 
on  the  station  sign-board. 

"  I  thought  we  were  coming  to  Sherwood 
Forest.  Where  is  the  wood?"  asked  the 
Matron. 

A  huge  plain  with  a  track  winding  off  on 
a  high  bank  extended  as  far  as  we  could 
see. 

"There  are  certainly  no  trees  here,"  cried 
the  others  in  chorus. 

A  porter  stood  ready  to  take  our  bags;  the 
daylight  was  waning;  dinner-hour  was  near 
at  hand.  I  had  never  been  near  Sherwood 
Forest  in  my  life,  but  I  waved  my  hand 
vaguely  toward  some  bushes  in  the  distance, 
saying:    "Look!    the  trees  are  over  there." 

i68 


The  Dukeries 

The  cloudy  evening  came  to  my  rescue,  for 
the  daylight  kindly  flickered  and  went  out. 

The  porter  took  us  to  the  Dukeries  Hotel, 
which  the  Matron  had  chosen  from  a  picture 
in  the  guide-book. 

"This  house  is  modern  enough!"  said 
Polly,  as  we  entered.  "  It  is  nothing  but  an 
American  seaside  hotel,  with  an  English 
coat  on." 

As  soon  as  we  were  inside  the  door,  we  saw 
before  us  the  cheap  stairway  with  machine- 
carved  banisters,  a  stained-glass  window  on 
the  landing,  and  we  were  led  to  narrow  bed- 
rooms with  hotel  furniture  that  would  bring 
blissful  memories  to  the  heart  of  the  true  citi- 
zen of  the  United  States. 

"  Do  you  suppose  we  shall  have  buckwheat 
cakes  for  breakfast?  "  plaintively  sighed  the 
Matron. 

But  if  the  architecture  of  the  exterior  dated 
from  the  fifteenth  century,  and  the  interior 
workmanship  from  the  last  sweet  fashion  of 
New  Jersey's  coast,  the  bill  of  fare  at  the 
Dukeries  is,  and  always  will  remain,  truly 
British.  We  need  no  menu.  We  know  what 
we  shall  have  to  eat  without  that:  Clear  soup, 
fish,  roast  mutton,  potatoes,  perhaps  Polly's 
favourite,  vegetable  marrow,  and  a  tart.     A 

169 


Among  English  Inns 

sweetly  simple  cuisine,  innocent  of  flavour, 
with  as  little  salt  as  possible. 

The  following  morning  at  breakfast,  the 
Invalid  began  conversation  by  remarking  that 
Sherwood  Forest  seemed  very  far  away  and 
the  coal-trains  very  near. 

"  Several  times  last  night  I  expected  an  en- 
gine or  two  to  run  in  and  share  my  bed,"  she 
wailed. 

"  I  am  sure  I  heard  a  man  being  murdered 
in  the  house,"  chimed  Polly,  cheerfully. 

"  Nonsense!  "  said  I.  "  He  had  the  night- 
mare. I  have  heard  those  same  sort  of  groans 
before.  The  walls  are  so  thin,  I  could  hear 
every  one  of  you  women  breathe." 

"  Come  find  the  forest;  it  must  be  hiding 
in  the  neighbourhood,"  said  Polly. 

"  When  we  find  it,  we  will  stay  there,"  said 
the  Invalid. 

The  forest  proved  to  be  not  so  very  far 
away.  We  walked  through  the  village  street 
of  Edwinstowe,  an  ugly  little  collection  of 
houses  all  packed  close  together  on  a  road 
lacking  even  the  usual  village  curve.  Two 
manor-houses  are  hidden  away  behind  high 
garden  walls,  a  few  uninviting  hostelries, 
some  modern  brick  houses,  and  a  shop  in 
which   everything,   from   canned   corn   to   a 

170 


A  GLADE  IX  SHERWOOD  FOREST 


The  Dukevies 

photograph,  is  sold.  A  cottage  at  the  end  of 
the  street  is  made  pretty  by  festoons  of  Vir- 
ginia creeper,  but  otherwise  there  is  very  little 
that  is  attractive  about  Edwinstowe.  Finally 
comes  a  strip  of  common,  and  then  we  plunge 
from  sunshine  into  the  heart  of  a  forest. 

"  The  glades  of  the  poets  and  the  oaks  of 
the  drawing-book!"  was  Polly's  admission. 

Under  our  feet  lay  a  carpet  of  ferns,  and 
great  oak-trees  towered  over  our  heads.  The 
sunlight  shot  down  thin  bright  rays  between 
the  green  bowers,  touching  here  and  there  the 
silver  trunk  of  a  graceful  birch,  or  the  smooth 
bark  of  a  great  beech-tree. 

"  It  is  the  real  Robin  Hood  wood  out  of 
the  picture-books.  Where  is  Friar  Tuck? 
He  must  be  waddling  along  here  somewhere." 

*'  There  are  the  Merry  Men  under  the 
trees." 

But  the  Merry  Men  turned  out  to  be  only 
labourers  picking  up  the  dead  branches, 
which  look  like  long  bows.  The  Matron  de- 
clared Fontainebleau  but  a  puny  duchy  com- 
pared to  this  kingdom  of  green.  Here  vet- 
eran oaks  stand  about  in  companies,  nodding 
stiffly  to  one  another  like  aged  men,  while 
their  great  roots  grasp  the  green  earth  with 
mammoth  claws.    Solemn,  dignified,  taciturn, 

171 


Among  English  Inns 

they  lift  their  bodies,  gnarled  and  ancient, 
above  all  the  other  trees. 

In  Sherwood  Forest  the  strong  individual- 
ity of  the  oak  is  very  marked.  If  its  life  be 
truly,  as  they  tell  us,  three  thousand  years, 
some  of  these  forest  oaks  before  us  must  have 
looked  down  upon  mighty  changes,  for  they 
now  seem  nearing  their  term  of  existence. 
Misshapen  and  buffeted  by  storm  and  wind, 
their  hearts  are  so  consumed  by  age  that  we 
can  crawl  into  some  of  the  hollow  trunks  and 
find  there  room  to  lie  down.  Models  of  tenac- 
ity and  courage,  these  aged  oaks  refuse  to  give 
up  life,  and  send  out  from  the  wreck  of  their 
existence  one  or  two  branches  bearing  shining, 
bright,  green,  healthy  leaves. 

The  oaks  at  Hardwick  seemed  sad.  They 
are  trees  for  a  forest,  not  for  a  park.  Like 
sturdy  peasants,  they  will  not  thrive  In  high 
society.  In  Sherwood,  however,  the  oaks  are 
with  their  kind  in  a  great  wood,  as  they  have 
grown  for  centuries;  the  birches  and  the 
beeches  keep  company  apart,  while  the  firs 
look  on  from  a  distance. 

Polly  admitted  that,  while  "  all  trees  seem 
human  to  her,  the  oak  has  the  strongest  per- 
sonality." 

Paths  are  cut  through  the  forest  in  many 
172 


The  Dukeries 

ways  under  the  thick  trees,  and  roads  branch 
off  in  all  directions.  The  strong  mossy  turf 
takes  no  mark  from  the  hoofs  of  passing 
horses,  and  on  its  smooth  surface  wheel  tracks 
make  little  impression.  The  general  public 
may  not  drive  upon  the  grassy  avenues,  but  all 
persons  may  walk  wherever  they  will.  No 
flowers  grow  here  under  the  greenwood  trees; 
the  air  is  filled  with  the  songs  of  birds,  the 
rabbits  frisk,  and  the  cock  pheasants  strut 
about  boldly.  We  caught  sight  of  the  red 
brush  of  a  slinking  fox,  stealing  along  after 
his  prey. 

Sherwood  was  the  haunt  of  Robin  Hood, 
Little  John,  and  Will  Scarlet  and  the  Merry 
Men  all.  Here  the  outlaws  followed  the  lu- 
crative profession  of  robbing  the  rich  and 
slaughtering  the  king's  deer.  The  great  oak 
where  Robin  Hood  hung  his  venison  is  still 
pointed  out,  and  there  is  another  huge  one 
under  which  he  fought  the  Lion-hearted 
Richard.  (The  guide-book  says  so.)  Neither 
of  these  trees  show  any  signs  of  decay,  so  in- 
credulous Polly  pretended  they  were  bushes 
in  Robin  Hood's  day. 

Thoresby  Park,  the  estate  of  Lord  Manvers, 
is  in  the  depths  of  Sherwood  Forest.  Within 
the  park  limits  are  the  most  magnificent  old 

173 


Among  English  Inns 

trees  and  a  wood  as  wild  as  it  was  centuries 
ago.  Earl  Manvers  will  not  allow  one  of  the 
oaks  to  be  felled  until  Nature  herself,  or  the 
elements  at  her  command,  shall  lay  them  low. 
The  hall  at  Thoresby  is  of  modern  con- 
struction, and  was  built  in  the  Elizabethan 
style.  It  is  not  open  to  the  public,  but  the 
house  can  be  seen  from  the  road  through  the 
park.  Monday,  Thursday,  and  Saturday  are 
the  days  on  which  the  public  may  drive 
through  the  three  great  estates  which  join 
one  another  between  Worksop  and  Edwin- 
stowe.  The  road  goes  through  the  private 
grounds  of  Earl  Manvers,  the  Duke  of  New- 
castle, and  the  Duke  of  Portland.  We  spent 
our  afternoon  sitting  under  the  oaks,  and  sent 
Polly  to  make  arrangements  for  The  Duker- 
ies  drive.^ 

^THE    DUKERIES    POSTING    ASSOCIATION 

Fares  from   Edwinstowe 


To  Welbeck,  Carburton,  Clumber,  Appley 

Head,  Normanton  Inn,  and  Thoresby 
Welbeck,  Clumber,  and  Thoresby 
Welbeck,  Carburton,  and  Budby 
Thoresby  and  Clumber 
Thoresby,  via  Buck  Gates 
Major  dak       .... 


Per 
Head 

35.   dd. 

V- 
2s.  6d. 

25. 
IS. 

bd. 


The  Dukeries 

Our  itinerary  included  a  trip  to  Rufford 
Abbey,  about  three  miles  distant,  and  quite  as 
much  an  object  of  interest  as  the  oak-trees. 
The  road  leading  there  is  bare  and  uninter- 
esting. The  abbey  is  now  the  property  of  the 
Savilles,  but  the  modern  repairs  have  quite 
obliterated  all  remains  of  the  ancient  mon- 
astery. The  Matron  flatly  refused  to  go.  She 
said  she  preferred  old  oaks  to  new  houses,  a 
term  not  strictly  proper  for  Rufiford  Abbey. 

"  You  will  find  us  by  the  Major  Oak  when 
you  have  settled  the  carriage  business,"  the 
Invalid  told  Polly.  We  trudged  ofif  with  a 
tea  basket,  and,  before  the  kettle  was  boiling, 
Polly  appeared  to  tell  us  of  the  arrangements 
made.  We  are  to  have  another  morning  in 
the  forest,  and  then  start  ofif  after  an  early 
lunch  on  the  road  through  the  parks  of 
Thoresby,  Clumber,  and  Welbeck,  and  from 

The   Duke's   Drive,   Shepherd    House,  and 

Ollerton  Corner    .....  2S. 

Budby,  Carburton,  and  Normanton  Inn        .  31. 

Easter  and  Whit  Tuesdays,  and  all  Bank   Holidays  bd, 
per  head  extra. 

The  Park  Drives  are  open  on  Mondays,  Thursdays,  and 
Saturdays  only. 

Welbeck  Abbey  open  Daily  until  4  p.  m.,  except  Satur- 
days, when  it  is  closed  at  12  noon. 


Among  English  Inns 

there  we  are  to  go  on  to  Worksop  to  stop  over- 
night. Four  shillings  apiece  our  drive  v\^ill 
cost,  and  our  bags  and  bundles  will  go  with 
us.  One  more  night  made  hideous  by  the 
coal-trains  to  the  light  sleepers  of  our  party, 
and  then  we  are  off  to  new  sights  and 
sounds. 

We  took  farewell  glimpses  in  the  morning 
of  the  light  filtering  down  through  the  trees 
in  the  forest  before  we  started  off  under  a 
heavenly  blue  sky,  in  a  comfortable  wagon- 
ette, on  one  of  the  most  perfect  drives  possible. 

Thoresby  House  we  only  saw  across  the 
water  of  a  small  lake.  The  formal  garden 
near  the  mansion  is  the  only  artificial  note  in 
the  entire  landscape.  The  whole  park  is  in 
the  wildest  part  of  Sherwood  Forest,  and  the 
Matron  insisted  upon  being  disappointed  be- 
cause Earl  Manvers  did  not  bury  his  house 
in  the  wood  like  a  fairy  castle,  therefore  Polly 
instantly  entered  on  a  long  discussion  of  the 
subject  with  her.  Polly  is  practical,  and  likes 
warmth  and  sunshine  more  than  poetical  sur- 
roundings. She  approves  of  the  open  formal 
garden.  The  drive  through  Thoresby  Park 
took  us  past  miles  of  splendid  oak-trees,  and 
then  out  of  the  gates  into  Clumber,  where  the 
Duke  of  Newcastle  has  his  domain.    Here  the 

176 


The  Dukeries 

grizzled  oaks  grow  scarce,  but  all  around  fir 
and  larch  mingle  with  the  silver  birch,  and  in 
the  famous  Lime  Drive,  an  avenue  of  perfect 
trees  which  goes  on  for  three  miles,  the  foliage 
is  so  dense  and  so  beautiful  that  the  trunks  of 
the  trees  are  almost  invisible.  At  the  end  of 
this  quadruple  row  of  magnificent  limes  we 
came  out  in  full  view  of  Clumber  House. 
A  great  sheet  of  water  bathes  the  steps  of  the 
terrace.  Clumber  House  was  built  at  the  time 
of  the  Georges,  and  is  no  more  picturesque 
than  any  of  the  other  princely  dwellings  of  that 
period,  but  the  view  across  the  water  rather 
softens  the  imperfections  in  the  architecture, 
and  the  broad  lake  and  background  of  waving 
green  lends  a  charm  the  house  otherwise 
would  not  possess.  There  are  great  treasures 
of  art  and  literature  in  the  vast  rooms,  but  the 
Invalid  and  the  Matron  refused  decidedly  to 
leave  the  sunshine  to  be  hurried  about  by  the 
housekeeper;  Polly  and  I  also  found  it  re- 
markably easy  to  deny  ourselves  that  ques- 
tionable pleasure. 

''  We  can  read  all  about  it  in  the  guide- 
book," said  the  indifl'erent  Invalid. 

"  I  for  one,"  announced  the  Matron,  "  do 
not  care  at  all  to  see  other  people's  houses 


177 


Among  English  Inns 

unless  they  give  me  some  suggestions  for  my 
own.    These  palaces  are  of  no  use  to  me." 

Polly  and  I  were  struck  dumb  by  the  Ma- 
tron's peculiar  reason.  Imagine  any  one 
gleaning  ideas  for  a  small  country  house  from 
a  palace  the  size  of  Clumber. 

The  estate  of  Welbeck  joins  Clumber,  and 
we  drove  on  through  a  woody  park,  much 
more  carefully  laid  out  than  either  of  those 
we  have  seen,  until  we  arrived  at  the  gate, 
where  we  left  the  carriage  to  visit  the  sights 
seen  at  Welbeck  Abbey.  The  many  tales  we 
have  read  of  the  late  duke,  of  his  eccentrici- 
ties, and  the  underground  apartments  he  built, 
had  filled  us  with  delightful  curiosity.  Our 
disappointment  was  great,  therefore,  when 
we  found  we  could  visit  nothing  but  the  Rid- 
ing-School, which  is  frankly  above  ground, 
the  kitchen-garden,   and  the  shrubberies. 

This  was  another  case  of  what  Polly  calls 
"  the  vagaries  of  British  information."  The 
guide-books  we  bought  assured  us  that  it  was 
easy  to  see  the  famous  underground  rooms; 
the  keeper  of  the  Dukeries  Hotel  declared 
that  any  one  could  visit  these  apartments,  and 
even  our  driver  reiterated  the  statement  that 
they  were  open  to  the  public,  "  but  you  may 
have  to  give  an  extra  fee." 

178 


The  Dukeries 

This  condition  we  were  more  than  willing 
to  fulfil ;  therefore,  after  paying  the  cus- 
tomary shilling,  and  receiving  a  ticket  of  ad- 
mission to  the  Riding-School  and  the  kitchen- 
garden,  Polly  stealthily  approached  the  civil 
guide  allotted  our  party.  To  our  surprise  she 
fell  back  from  his  side  with  a  despairing  look 
on  her  face. 

"  For  two  years  past,  these  rooms  have  been 
closed  to  the  public.  All  the  furniture  of 
Welbeck  Abbey  is  packed  into  the  under- 
ground apartments,  while  the  house  is  be- 
ing restored  after  a  very  bad  fire,"  she  told 
us. 

It  will  be  three  or  four  years  more  before 
the  house  will  be  opened  again  to  the  public, 
the  work  is  going  so  slowly.  We  were  forced 
to  content  ourselves  with  the  little  we  were 
allowed  to  see.  The  Riding-School  was  built 
by  the  late  Duke  of  Portland,  who,  like  his 
ancestress,  Bess  of  Hardwick,  was  afflicted 
with  the  building  mania.  He  had  an  army  of 
men  working  about  Welbeck  all  the  time,  and 
he  accomplished  an  enormous  amount  of 
building.  If  the  work  done  by  his  architect 
did  not  suit  him,  as  sometimes  happened, 
after  it  was  quite  finished,  he  simply  sum- 
moned the  workmen  and  pulled  it  all  down 

179 


Among  English  Inns 

again.  Underground  rooms  and  long  tunnels 
through  the  ground,  and  passages  only  lighted 
from  above,  this  queer  duke  constructed  in 
all  directions. 

It  is  a  disputed  question  why  this  very 
peculiar  man  fled  from  the  sight  of  his  fellow 
men  and  enjo3^ed  living  underground.  The 
splendid  Riding-School  is  an  extravagant 
piece  of  work.  The  birds  of  England,  each 
nesting  in  its  favourite  tree,  are  finely  wrought 
in  beautiful  coloured  bronze  to  make  a  frieze 
running  around  the  ring  380  feet  long  by  104 
feet  in  width.  The  great  glass  roof  is  arched 
and  springs  from  graceful  iron  pillars  which 
divide  the  centre  ring  from  the  broad  passage 
running  around  the  sides.  We  were  treated 
to  a  glimpse  of  one  concealed  passage  as  we 
left  the  Riding-School.  It  leads  to  the  house 
and  is  lighted  by  skylights  which  are  con- 
cealed on  the  outside  by  the  shrubbery  and 
the  turf.  The  walls,  damp  and  green,  extend 
for  nearly  a  mile  under  the  earth.  From 
this  passage  we  came  out  upon  a  most  lovely 
sunken  winter  garden,  and  we  here  could  see 
the  doors  and  windows  which  led  to  the  noted 
underground  picture-gallery  and  ballroom,, 
said  to  be  the  largest  rooms  in  all  England. 


180 


The  Dukeries 

Our  guide  had  been  five  years  in  the  serv- 
ice of  the  eccentric  duke  before  he  died.  He 
told  us  that  any  servant  found  wandering  in 
these  concealed  passages  during  the  old  duke's 
lifetime  w^as  instantly  discharged.  From  the 
winter  garden  we  stepped  out  into  a  rose-gar- 
den four  hundred  feet  long  and  half  as  wide, 
sunken  below  the  turf  of  the  lawn.  The  old 
duke  had  built  here  great  walls  of  Portland 
cement,  and  had  planned  an  apartment  which 
he  called  a  Bachelor's  Hall  (although  he  in- 
tended admitting  no  bachelor  but  himself  to 
its  privacy) .  iHe  died  before  these  walls  were 
covered  in,  and  the  present  duke,  a  cousin, 
loves  air  and  the  sun,  and  has  draped  the  un- 
finished room  with  ivy  and  planted  the  great 
floor  with  beautiful  roses. 

The  lake  at  Welbeck  is  the  biggest,  the  deer 
park  is  the  biggest,  everything  is  the  biggest. 
The  offices  and  the  stables  and  the  houses  of 
the  employees  form  a  town;  there  is  a  fire 
department.  We,  being  simple  folk,  found 
our  minds  somewhat  confused  by  all  this  vast- 
ness,  but  we  could  not  refrain  from  admiring 
the  wonderful  order  and  great  care  bestowed 
upon  this  huge  park,  the  lake,  the  garden,  and 
all  the  buildings  on  the  estate. 

Welbeck  has  thirty-two  acres  of  kitchen- 
x8i 


Among  English  Inns 

garden  and  an  immense  glass-house  for  trop- 
ical plants,  fruits,  and  vegetables.  We  walked 
through  an  arbour  four  hundred  feet  long, 
of  which  one  side  was  formed  by  pear-trees 
and  the  other  by  apple-trees  trained  over  iron 
arches  and  mingling  their  fruit  over  our 
heads.  Along  by  the  side  of  this  remarkable 
arbour  is  an  apricot  wall  of  equal  length,  the 
trees  in  espalier  all  thick  with  shining  fruit 
hanging  from  the  branches,  spread  out  to 
catch  every  ray  of  the  sun. 

The  house  is  not  very  beautiful  from  an 
architectural  standpoint.  It  is  vast  in  its 
dimensions,  but  quainter  and  older  than 
Chatsworth.  The  pleasure-grounds  around 
the  mansion,  which  reach  down  to  the  great 
lake,  are  lovely  in  the  extreme,  and  on  the 
green  slope  opposite  browse  a  herd  of  pure 
white  deer. 

Outside  the  great  gate,  but  still  within  the 
limits  of  the  estate,  is  a  picturesque  little 
group  of  houses  called  "  The  Winnings." 
The  Duke  of  Portland  has  erected  these 
houses  as  homes  for  his  aged  servitors  with 
the  money  won  by  his  race-horses.  The  ori- 
gin of  these  artistic  little  dwellings  is  ex- 
plained by  an  inscription  carved  in  stone  on 
the  central  house: 

182 


The  Dukeries 

"  These  houses  were  erected  by  the  Sixth 
Duke  of  Portland  at  the  request  of  his  wife 
for  the  benefit  of  the  poor,  and  to  commem- 
orate the  success  of  his  race-horses  in  the  years 
1888,   1889,  and  1890: 

"Ayrshire  —  Two  thousand  guineas  and 
Derby,   1888. 

"Donovan  —  Derby  and  St.  Leger,  1889. 

"Memoir  —  The  Oaks  and  St.  Leger, 
1890. 

"  Semolina  —  One  thousand  guineas,  1890." 

There  are  six  houses,  each  with  two  bed- 
rooms, a  sitting-room,  and  a  kitchen,  and  all 
are  artistically  and  comfortably  furnished. 

The  way  on  to  Worksop  is  through  one  of 
the  long  tunnels  built  by  the  late  duke.  We 
passed  the  remains  of  Worksop  Manor-house, 
which  was  begun  by  Bess  of  Hardwick.  Al- 
though the  building  was  never  finished,  the 
manor-house  as  it  now  stands  is  a  mansion 
by  no  means  to  be  despised  for  its  size. 

Worksop  is  a  commonplace  little  English 
town,  with  all  the  characteristics  of  one  of 
that  sort.  The  wagonette  left  us  at  the  Royal, 
a  little  slice  of  a  hotel  in  the  principal  street, 
sandwiched  between  a  bank  and  a  bake-shop. 
It  is  spotless  and  clean,  if  not  very  large.  The 
Matron's  bedroom  took  up  the  entire  front 

183 


Among  English  Inns 

of  the  house,  and  the  rest  of  our  rooms  fill  a 
whole  wing  at  the  back  of  the  house.  The 
Invalid  looked  out  of  her  window  upon  a 
blank  wall  and  heaved  a  mighty  sigh  of  relief 
because  the  noise  of  no  coal-train  can  reach 
her  ears  to-night.  Worksop  has  the  ruins  of  a 
fine  priory  with  a  superb  gateway,  now  fast 
falling  into  decay,  which  led  into  the  monas- 
tery grounds.  The  Church  of  the  Priors  has 
been  restored;  it  has  fragments  of  Norman 
work  about  the  doors,  and  in  the  nave  and 
side  aisles.  Other  than  by  these,  our  walk 
in  Worksop  was  unrewarded  by  any  subject 
of  interest  save  a  photographer's  shop,  and 
even  there  we  could  get  no  good  pictures  of 
Sherwood  Forest.  After  our  walk,  we  had 
our  supper,  and  each  one  food  to  her  own 
liking.  Polly  ordered  eggs,  the  Invalid  fish, 
the  Matron  chicken,  and  I,  a  slice  cut  from 
the  joint.  After  this  feast,  which  put  us  in 
high  good  humour,  we  retired  to  the  Matron's 
sumptuous  bedroom  to  talk  over  future  plans, 
and  had  just  settled  our  affairs  for  the  mor- 
row, when  Polly  sat  down  on  a  deceptively 
comfortable  chair  in  the  corner.  Being  a 
fraud  and  a  delusion,  with  only  three  legs,  the 
comfortable  seat  collapsed  at  once.  This  in- 
cident broke  up  the  meeting,  but  not  before 

184 


The  Dukeries 

we  had  decided  for  Lincolnshire  the  next 
morning,  to  see  the  Fen  Country  and  Old  Bos- 
ton Town,  which  some  of  our  ancestors  left 
for  the  bleak  coast  of  New  England. 

We  bid  good-bye  to  Worksop  early  in  the 
morning,  knowing  we  must  change  our  train 
at  Mansfield.  The  stupidity  of  a  railway 
porter  made  us  miss  our  train,  so,  instead  of 
reaching  Boston  at  two  o'clock,  we  did  not 
get  there  until  nearly  sundown.  This  loss 
in  the  end  proved  a  gain.  Polly  and  I,  who 
were  highly  indignant  at  what  we  supposed 
would  be  a  long  wait  in  Mansfield,  were 
busily  making  life  miserable  for  the  booking- 
agent,  who  was  serenely  listening  to  our  re- 
marks behind  his  little  window,  when  a  pleas- 
ant old  gentleman  standing  by  said,  civilly: 
"  Why  do  you  ladies  not  go  to  Newstead 
Abbey  instead  of  spending  four  hours  in 
Mansfield?  To-day  is  visiting-day,  and  I  am 
sure  you  can  get  back  in  time  for  your  train." 

Thanking  the  old  gentleman  for  the  wel- 
come proposal,  we  returned  to  the  attack  on 
the  booking-agent. 

"  Is  Newstead  so  near?  " 

"  Only  five  miles,"  said  the  booking-agent. 
"  There  will  be  a  train  going  in  five  minutes. 
Three  single  thirds?     Sixpence  each." 

i8s 


Amo7ig  English  Inns 

We  seized  the  tickets,  got  a  porter  in  hot 
haste,  deposited  all  our  bags  in  the  cloak- 
room, and  hurried  the  Invalid  and  the  Ma- 
tron over  the  bridge  into  a  waiting  train. 
Before  they  had  time  to  ask  us  where  they 
were  going,  we  were  rushing  along  between 
green  mounds  and  great  black  hills  of  refuse, 
thrown  from  the  coal-pits,  before  we  ex- 
plained to  them  that  we  were  not  on  the  way 
to  Boston. 

Between  Mansfield  and  Newstead  we 
passed  Annesley,  the  home  of  Byron's  early 
love,  Mary  Chaworth.  We  could  not  see 
the  house  from  the  windows  of  the  train.  It 
is  among  the  thick  trees  on  the  slope  of  the 
hill.  About  the  station  at  Newstead  are  piled 
black,  uninviting  signs  of  prosperity  and  coal, 
but  the  lodge-gates  of  the  abbey  are  near  and 
when  they  are  passed  the  wide  meadow-lands 
extend  far  on  either  side  of  the  avenue. 

The  distance  from  the  station  to  Newstead 
Abbey  is  a  good  long  mile,  and  the  private 
road  begins  almost  at  the  station  gates.  The 
first  half-mile  of  the  avenue  is  planted  on 
either  side  with  very  young  trees.  It  must 
have  been  that  the  wicked  Byron,  who  pre- 
ceded the  poet  as  owner  of  the  estate,  cut  down 
the  forest  trees.     At  the  second  lodge,  the 

i86 


The  Diikeries 

destruction  was  arrested  by  an  injunction 
served  upon  the  miserable  old  uncle,  and 
thence  the  avenue  w^inds  about  wooded  knolls 
covered  with  fine  trees  and  thick  underbrush. 
When  the  little  gem  of  a  monkish  dwelling 
appears  in  the  hollow,  it  stands  against  a  back- 
ground of  thick  green.  The  clear  blue  sky 
made  colour  in  the  great  ruined  window  of 
the  dismantled  church,  while  the  fine  foliage 
of  the  garden  trees  was  seen  through  the  doors 
and  portal  of  its  ruined  fagade.  The  garden 
covers  the  space  once  occupied  by  the  church. 
The  house,  which  extends  along  beside  the 
ruin,  has  been  restored  nearly  to  the  same  state 
in  which  it  was  when  the  monks  were  driven 
forth.  The  long  windows  of  the  abbot's  re- 
fectory, now  the  great  hall,  are  above  the  low 
entrance  door  to  the  abbey.  Colonel  Wild- 
man,  who  bought  the  estate  from  Byron,  spent 
£100,000  in  restoring  and  fitting  up  the  house. 
What  he  left  undone  has  been  finished  by 
W.  F.  Webb,  Esq.,  whose  descendants  now 
live  here. 

The  Byrons  were  a  sad  lot,  as  every  one 
knows,  and  had  not  Lord  Byron  made  a  place 
for  orgies  out  of  the  mansion  he  so  loved  and 
of  which  he  was  so  proud,  he  might  have  kept 
the  estate  with  which  he  was  forced  to  part. 

187 


Afnong  English  Inns 

We  found  here  in  Newstead  Abbey  a  most 
interesting  and  interested  housekeeper  who 
showed  us  through.  She  was  as  much  enam- 
oured of  Lord  Byron  as  were  the  ladies  in 
his  own  time.  She  kept  repeating  to  us,  as 
she  took  us  through  the  rooms  in  which  he 
had  lived,  and  exhibiting  some  relics  of  the 
poet: 

"Pore  thing!  Pore  fellow!  I  think  that 
he  might  have  been  better,  and  quite  different 
perhaps,  if  some  one  had  only  loved  him." 

To  be  sure,  his  mother  was  not  exactly  the 
kind  of  a  woman  calculated  to  train  in  the 
right  way  the  sort  of  nature  which  Lord 
Byron  possessed,  but  the  sentimental  house- 
keeper's admiration  was  not  shared  by  Polly. 

The  old  Chapel  House,  wherein  Lord 
Byron  kept  his  dogs,  and  which  was  in  a  most 
ruined  condition  during  his  lifetime,  has  been 
restored  by  the  present  owners.  The  little 
dining-room,  where  he  and  his  boon  compan- 
ions sat  often  and  long,  is  exactly  as  he  left 
it;  so  is  his  bedchamber,  and  the  room  (said 
to  be  haunted)  where  slept  his  page.  The 
cloisters,  the  almonry,  and  the  stone  staircases 
appear  as  though  left  by  the  abbots  but  yes- 
terday. The  water  trickles  from  a  quaint  old 
fountain,  with  weird  beasts  carved  upon  it, 

i88 


The  Dukeries 

in  the  close,  and  the  furnishing  and  fitting  of 
the  house  is  in  every  respect  appropriate  for 
the  severe  style  of  architecture.  The  lake, 
when  we  saw  it,  was  being  drained  and 
cleaned.  At  the  time  when  Byron  nearly 
drowned  in  it,  he  was  saved  from  death  by 
his  faithful  Newfoundland  dog,  Boatswain, 
and  the  tomb  of  this  devoted  friend  is  in  the 
garden  within  sight  of  the  windows  of  the 
great  drawing-room.  The  painting  of  the 
first  Lord  Byron,  to  whom  the  king  gave  this 
estate,  hangs  here  on  the  wall,  together  with 
the  well-known  painting  of  the  poet. 

The  little  housekeeper  lamented  sorely  that 
Byron  had  not  known  of  the  presence  of  coal 
at  Newstead.  Her  af]fection  for  the  dead  poet 
was  touching. 

"  He  would  have  saved  all  this  if  he'd  only 
had  that  money,"  she  told  us.  She  always 
loved  his  poetry,  she  said,  and  admired  his 
personality  when  she  was  a  young  girl,  and 
the  privilege  of  now  living  in  his  former  home 
was  a  romantic  joy  to  her.  It  was  a  novel 
pleasure  to  meet  an  English  housekeeper  who 
permitted  her  mind  to  entertain  other  ideas 
than  those  connected  with  the  mere  duties  of 
her  position.    Only  the  fear  of  losing  another 


189 


Among  English  Inns 

train  forced  us  away  from  this  entertaining 
little  guide. 

Newstead  Abbey  has  harboured  other  dis- 
tinguished guests  since  Byron  left  it.  Liv- 
ingstone, the  explorer,  often  lived  here  for 
months  at  a  time  with  Mr.  Webb,  who  was 
his  friend,  and  here  he  wrote  much  of  his 
great  work.  There  are  several  intere;sting 
relics  of  the  discoverer  in  the  same  gallery 
where  is  preserved  the  uniform  worn  by 
Byron  during  his  last  days  in  Greece. 

"  Shall  we  ever  get  to  Boston?  "  asked  the 
Matron,  falling  panting  into  the  train  for 
Mansfield.  Polly's  entertaining  quotations 
from  The  Real  Lord  Byron  had  so  absorbed 
our  attention  that  we  had  deliberately  walked 
out  of  Newstead  Abbey  gates  into  the  wrong 
station,  and  were  only  saved  by  an  accident 
from  sitting  there  all  day.  Both  the  Great 
Northern  and  the  Midland  Railroad  have 
stations  at  Newstead,  and  both  lines  run  very 
near  the  park  gates.  This  we  had  not  no- 
ticed when  we  arrived,  and  on  our  departure 
we  went  carelessly  into  the  first  station  we  saw. 
Luckily  our  sixpence  back  to  Mansfield  had 
not  been  paid,  and  when,  at  ten  minutes  of 
train-time,  no  booking-agent  appeared,  Polly 
started  off  on  an  exploring  expedition.    Pres- 

190 


The  Dukeries 

ently  we  saw  her  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
platform,  talking  to  a  porter,  and  making 
wild  gestures  to  us,  then  quickly  starting  off 
to  run  down  the  road.  We  followed  her 
blindly,  —  we  invariably  did,  —  and  reached 
the  Midland  Station  just  in  time  to  tumble 
into  a  carriage. 

"  So  glad  you  got  here,"  gasped  Polly.  "  I 
ran  ahead,  because  I  knew  the  obliging  train- 
guard  would  wait  for  you  if  I  asked  him." 

In  the  Mansfield  station,  where  passengers 
change  cars  and  lose  trains  and  wait  hours, 
there  is  no  refreshment-room.  By  asking 
many  questions,  and  asking  them  of  many 
people,  we  learned  that  the  town  proper,  and 
food,  lay  within  five  minutes'  walk  of  the 
station. 

"  It  is  lucky  for  us  that  we  have  not,  as 
usual,  two  miles  to  tramp  before  we  come  to 
the  market-place,"  was  the  Invalid's  comment, 
as  we  started  down  the  steep  hill  beside  the 
station  and  entered  on  a  broad  space  filled 
with  booths.  It  was  market-day,  but,  as  no 
signs  of  "  Luncheon  served  "  appeared  in  any 
window  of  the  market-place,  we  turned  hur- 
riedly down  a  narrow  street,  where  Polly 
pointed  with  glee  to  the  sign,  "  Oriental 
Cafe." 

191 


Among  English  Inns 

These  establishments,  not  as  Eastern  as  the 
name  promises,  are  to  be  found  in  all  pro- 
vincial towns,  and  they  are  an  oasis  in  the 
desert  to  the  hungry  English  tourist.  We  got 
an  excellent  cup  of  real  coffee,  together  with 
a  light,  substantial  luncheon,  for  a  very  rea- 
sonable sum. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THE  PEACOCK 
AND   ROYAL 

Boston 

E  are  actually  on 
our  way  to  Bos- 
ton at  last,"  said  the 
Matron.  We  Had  left  nothing  behind  in 
Mansfield  but  a  few  shillings,  and  we  rode  on 
slowly  as  far  as  Nottingham,  where  we  were 
obliged  to  change  again.  There  were  no  lace 
curtains  in  the  station  at  Nottingham,  much 
to  our  disappointment.  There  appeared, 
however,  two  very  fat  rams  dyed  a  deep  red. 
Their  war-paint  had  evidently  struck  inward, 
for  all  the  porters  were  engaged  in  trying  to 
conduct  the  belligerent  animals  from  one  van 
to  another.  When  the  warlike  beasts  were  not 
engaging  one  porter  with  their  horns,  they 
were  executing  flank  movements  on  the  others 
with  their  hoofs.    The  battle  was  so  exciting 

^93 


Among  English  htns 

that  we  quite  forgot  about  our  train  until  in- 
dustrious Polly  seized  a  porter,  luckily  too 
small  to  resist  her,  loaded  him  down  with  be- 
longings, and,  before  he  knew  what  was  being 
done,  had  steered  him  into  more  peaceful 
quarters  —  the  Boston  train. 

The  prize  rams  were  still  fighting  for  lib- 
erty. Nottingham  Castle  disappeared  through 
the  smoke  of  the  busy  town,  and  then  we  were 
off  through  the  country,  —  a  billowy  country 
with  very  little  woodland.  The  train  passes 
near  Belvoir  Castle,  built  on  a  high  ridge.  It 
looked  very  like  Windsor  through  the  haze  of 
the  afternoon.  The  Dukes  of  Rutland  have 
been  living  at  Belvoir  ever  since  they  deserted 
Haddon  Hall,  or,  rather,  they  have  been  liv- 
ing there  since  the  younger  branch  of  the 
Manners  family  succeeded  to  the  title. 

Not  long  after  passing  Belvoir  and  Slea- 
ford  Station,  we  came  into  the  Fen  Country. 
When  the  Puritans  left  Lincolnshire  for 
America,  this  vast  region  was  a  savage  tract, 
desolate,  uncultivated,  full  of  bogs  and  ague. 
The  inhabitants  were  a  rude  people  who 
barely  managed  to  exist  by  the  crops  they  got 
off  the  small  patches  of  land  they  reclaimed 
from  the  water.  Now  all  this  is  changed. 
The  Big  Drain  flows  along  beside  the  track 

194 


The  Peacock  and  Royal 

as  wide  as  a  canal,  and  is  spanned  by  bridges 
more  or  less  picturesque,  and  at  intervals 
smaller  drains  run  from  all  sides  to  meet  it. 
The  fields  are  fertile  and  the  farms  look 
prosperous. 

The  style  of  architecture  so  much  admired, 
and  so  continually  copied  by  the  early  settlers 
in  New  England,  is  the  architecture  of  the 
Lincolnshire  Fens.  Square  houses  with  long, 
slanting  roofs,  a  door  in  the  middle,  and  one 
or  two  windows  on  either  side  of  it,  can  be 
seen  here  in  brick,  quite  like  the  wooden  re- 
productions that  predominate  in  the  old  towns 
about  Boston,  Mass.  Before  the  Fens  were 
drained,  the  roofs  of  the  cottages  were  made 
of  the  reeds  so  plentiful  in  the  district,  and 
this  must  have  added  a  decidedly  picturesque 
quality  to  the  little  dwellings  now  made  ugly 
by  dull  slate.  The  reeds  have  disappeared 
with  the  reclaiming  of  the  land,  and  we  were 
told  that  it  was  hard  now  to  find  a  good 
thatcher  in  this  part  of  Lincolnshire. 

The  dampness  of  the  flat  lands  here  is 
responsible  for  the  loveliest  atmospheric  ef- 
fects. Over  this  otherwise  uninteresting  plain 
there  spreads  at  the  sunset  hour  a  most  won- 
derful colour.  The  air  glows  like  gold,  the 
drains  glitter  like  molten  metal,  and  the  wide 

195 


Among  English  Inns 

fields  and  commonplace  houses  become  glori- 
fied by  the  light  of  the  hour.  It  was  through 
this  golden  mist  that  we  first  saw  the  tall  tower 
of  St.  Botolph's  Church  —  the  Boston  Stump, 
as  it  is  called  —  looming  gray  before  us.  We 
had  reached  Boston  at  last,  after  all  our 
troubles! 

Following  the  advice  of  a  lady  who  hap- 
pened to  be  in  the  carriage  with  us,  we  gave 
our  luggage  to  the  'bus  driver  to  take  to  the 
hotel,  and  walked  there  with  our  new-found 
acquaintance  by  a  short  cut.  Our  guide  was 
a  Boston  woman,  and  knew  the  road,  or  we 
surely  should  have  found  ourselves  as  com- 
pletely astray  as  does  the  Western  stranger  in 
Boston,  U.  S.  A. 

On  the  street  leading  from  the  station,  down 
which  we  followed  the  Boston  lady,  the  low 
brick  houses  were  all  exactly  alike,  and  out 
of  them  poured  forth  large  families  of  dirty 
children.  After  two  minutes'  walk  through 
this  uninviting  beginning  of  the  town,  the 
street  suddenly  stopped,  and  we  stood  above 
the  parapet  where  the  river  ran  swift  beneath, 
and  we  looked  across  the  water  at  the  great 
tower  of  St.  Botolph's  Church  shooting  up 
into  the  red  sky. 

This  is  the  finest  view  in  Boston,  and,  as 
196 


ST.  botolph's  church,  boston 


The  Peacock  and  Royal 

we  saw  it  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  dull  com- 
monplace street  by  which  we  had  come,  our 
enthusiasm  was  correspondingly  great.  From 
this  spectacle  we  understood  plainly  why  Bos- 
ton is  said,  by  the  English,  to  look  like  a 
Dutch  town.  Along  the  river  gorgeously 
painted  fishing-boats  were  making  their  way 
out  at  high  tide  to  The  Wash.  Bridges 
spanned  the  river,  and  gardens  grew  along  the 
side  behind  the  high  walls  required  to  curb 
the  River  Wytham's  ardour.  As  a  tidal  river, 
it  has  a  way  of  climbing  over  barriers  and  even 
at  intervals  invading  the  great  church.  Bos- 
ton has  no  pleasant  recollections  of  these  frol- 
ics. They  have  wrought  horrible  destruction, 
and  once  nearly  destroyed  the  whole  town. 
From  the  river-bank  we  went  to  the  bridge, 
through  a  distracting  maze  of  narrow  lanes, 
before  we  reached  our  hotel  on  the  market- 
place, as  Polly  observed,  "  quite  Bostonese." 
The  Peacock  and  Royal  is  a  commercial 
hotel  of  cheerful  aspect.  The  front  is  dec- 
orated by  bright  flowers  and  long  trailing 
vines  growing  from  the  window-boxes  on  the 
balconies,  and  above  all  is  a  most  gorgeous 
sign  of  the  most  gorgeous  of  birds,  from  which 
it  takes  its  name.  We  ate  our  comfortable 
little   dinner   in   the   cofifee-room,   our   table 

197 


Among  English  Inns 

placed  in  a  "  Dendy  Sadler  bow-window," 
behind  one  of  which  the  Matron  has  always 
pined  to  sit.  It  was  nine  o'clock  before  we 
left  the  table.  We  were  too  tired  to  explore 
Boston's  winding  ways,  and,  as  it  was  too  early 
for  bed,  I  had  this  time  secured  a  large  front 
room  looking  over  the  market-place,  and  my 
sleepy  friends  soon  found  entertainment  there. 
The  sound  of  a  twanging  banjo,  which 
came  from  beneath  our  window,  gathered  the 
few  stragglers  in  the  market-place  into  a  cir- 
cle around  the  door  of  the  Peacock.  We 
could  not  see  the  musician  from  our  window, 
but  he  broke  forth  as  soon  as  the  audience 
had  gathered  into  the  usual  sentimental  bal- 
lad dear  to  English  ears.  Some  boys,  with 
dogs  at  their  heels,  formed  the  outside  of  the 
meagre  crowd,  and  then  from  a  side  street 
came  belated  mothers,  pushing  their  babies 
home  in  perambulators.  Polly  says  that  at 
no  hour  in  the  twenty-four  are  English  streets 
entirely  free  from  perambulators,  and,  late 
as  it  was,  three  of  these  useful  carriages 
joined  the  circle,  the  mothers,  in  true  Boston 
fashion,  being  unable  to  resist  music.  The 
audience  grew  larger  and  the  circle  wider; 
the  songs  were  succeeded  by  dialogues,  and 
coppers  rained  plentifully  into  the  collector's 

198 


The  Peacock  and  Royal 

hand,  until  a  baby  set  up  an  opposition  con- 
cert, and  an  enterprising  dog  was  encouraged 
by  the  noise  to  fight  his  four-legged  neigh- 
bour. During  the  rumpus  which  succeeded, 
the  musicians  vanished.  The  dog  riot  was 
finally  quelled,  the  babies  trundled  home,  and 
the  market-place  in  a  few  minutes  was  abso- 
lutely deserted  for  the  night. 

Next  morning  unwonted  sounds  of  activity 
got  me  out  of  bed  at  an  early  hour.  Booths 
were  being  put  up  for  a  market. 

"  We  cannot  seem  to  get  away  from  mar- 
kets," the  Matron  said.  "  There  is  one  in 
every  town  we  visit.  We  left  the  weekly 
market  yesterday  in  Mansfield  to  find  it  to-day 
in  Boston." 

Little  houses  on  wheels  are  drawn  clatter- 
ing over  the  stones,  and  take  their  places  all 
in  a  row  near  the  inn.  Then  signs  are  hung 
out  on  each,  announcing  that  within  wonder- 
ful seeds  and  infallible  means  of  making  the 
seeds  grow  are  to  be  purchased.  The  many 
canvas-roofed  booths  are  soon  taken  in  charge 
by  buxom  market-women.  They  pile  up  fruit 
and  vegetables  which  speak  well  for  the  fer- 
tility of  the  Fen  Country  in  each  of  these. 
We  could  hardly  wait  to  finish  our  breakfast, 
so  interested  did  we  become  in  what  was  going 

199 


Among  Eiiglish  Inns 

on  in  the  little  outdoor  shops.  A  descent  into 
the  market-place  revealed  that  they  were  not 
only  occupied  by  market  products,  but  several 
were  given  up  to  the  sale  of  the  most  wonder- 
ful and  tooth-destroying  sweeties  ever  in- 
vented. 

"  No  wonder  there  are  not  teeth  enough  to 
go  around  in  England!"  exclaimed  Polly,  as 
she  pointed  in  horror  to  a  perfect  copy  in  ex- 
traordinary candy  of  the  Royal  Crown. 
Bright  red  sugar  on  top,  with  deadly  yellow 
confection  below  and  silver  stuck  on  above 
ermine  trimmings,  it  is  as  astonishing  confec- 
tionery as  can  be  imagined.  Piled  high  above 
the  insignia  of  royalty  were  great  cakes  at  least 
fifteen  inches  around;  a  brilliant  scarlet  gela- 
tine was  smeared  on  top  and  orange-hued 
candy  appeared  beneath.  Pounds  of  a  dark 
brown  brick-like  sweet  were  piled  up  beside 
sugar  sticks  of  surprising  manufacture  that 
were  at  least  two  feet  long  and  two  inches 
thick. 

"  The  motto  goes  all  the  way  through  the 
stick,"  proudly  announced  the  vender,  as  he 
broke  up  for  our  admiration  one  of  the  great 
clubs,  —  pink  on  the  edge,  white  in  the  mid- 
dle, with  "Give  me  your  heart"  in  black. 
These  marvellous  sweets  sold  in  packages  of 

200 


The  Peacock  and  Royal 

various  weight  from  a  penny  upwards,  and 
disappeared  more  quickly  than  their  out- 
ward appearance  would  warrant. 

There  were  baskets  so  enticing  in  another 
booth  that  the  Matron  and  the  Invalid 
walked  all  around  town  laden  down  with 
wicker  purchases.  Onward  we  strolled 
through  the  market-place,  delighted  with 
everything  we  saw,  and  Polly  had  hard  work 
to  fix  our  wayward  attention  long  enough  to 
tell  us  that  John  Fox  was  born  in  a  house 
where  now  stands  an  inn  called  "  The  Rum 
Puncheon." 

"  What  a  jolly  name  for  an  inn,"  said  the 
Matron,  who  cares  nothing  for  celebrities. 
The  Invalid  exclaimed  "  Fox's  Martyrs  "  at 
the  same  moment  (that  is  all  she  knew  about 
him,  probably,  though  she  looked  very  wise). 
The  quaintest  old  building  on  the  market- 
place stands  next  the  Rum  Puncheon,  and  is 
called  "  The  Angel."  We  forgot  John  Fox 
and  all  his  writings  at  the  next  toy  booth  with 
its  penny  wares.  There  were  barrel-bodied 
horses,  solemn-looking  dogs,  and  very  woolly 
sheep,  all  of  which  the  Matron  wanted  to  take 
home  with  her.  The  English  children  show 
the  national  love  of  animals  by  the  toys  they 
choose. 

20I 


Among  English  Inns 

Who  has  spent  a  day  in  old  Boston  and  not 
heard  the  town-crier?  On  this  particular 
market-day  that  functionary,  in  a  somewhat 
shabby,  sombre  brown  suit,  brandishing  a 
huge,  shiny  bell,  held  the  awestricken  pink- 
cheeked  market-women  entranced  while  he 
recited,  in  a  stentorian  voice,  the  dismal  news : 
"  A  ter-r-rible  murder!  Three  victims  dead! 
Murderer  at  large!"  jingling  his  bell  so  dis- 
mally that  involuntarily  we  looked  over  our 
shoulders,  getting  nearer  to  the  loud-tongued 
bell,  as  though  it  could  protect  us.  The  most 
enterprising  member  of  the  group  hurried 
to  the  corner  news-stand,  and  came  back  with 
The  Boston  Post,  wherein  we  read  that  the 
murder  had  been  committed  fully  twenty 
miles  from  the  crier's  bell,  so  we  might  safely 
resume  our  explorations  in  the  town  without 
colliding  with  the  escaping  wretch. 

St.  Botolph  is  at  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
market-place  from  the  Peacock.  We  strolled 
there  among  the  booths  and  peered  over  the 
high  wall,  which  protects  the  church  from 
the  water,  to  find  the  rushing  river  of  the  night 
before  was  reduced  by  the  outgoing  tide  to 
the  merest  ditch.  About  St.  Botolph's  Church 
still  remained  a  close,  with  queer-looking, 
ancient  structures  with  steep,  curious  gables. 

202 


The  Peacock  and  Royal 

The  church  architecture  is  very  foreign  in 
style,  but  modern  English  taste  prevails  in 
the  restored  interior.  The  tower,  piled  up  so 
high,  lacks  that  finish  on  top,  which  only  its 
nickname,  "  The  Stump,"  describes. 

A  very  narrow  lane  between  the  old  houses, 
marked  "  Worm  Gate,"  led  away  from  the 
close.  That  the  languages  are  cultivated  in 
this  town  was  evident  from  a  sign  we  saw 
there  in  a  tiny  shop: 

"L.    KEPER,    TAILOR    D'HOMMES." 

We  left  the  Worm  Gate  on  the  broad 
road  along  the  Maud  Foster  Drain.  Why 
Maud  Foster  nobody  knows,  but,  as  such  a 
person  is  known  to  have  had  business  rela- 
tions with  the  corporation  of  Boston  in  1568, 
it  is  supposed  that  the  lady  allowed  the  drain 
to  be  cut  through  her  property  on  condition 
that  it  should  be  called  by  her  name.  It  is 
as  wide  as  a  small  river,  has  high  walls  on 
either  side,  and  the  irregular  red  houses  with 
the  windmill  twirling  above  them  is  another 
touch  of  Holland.  John  Cotton  and  his 
friends  did  not  take  all  the  east  wind  over 
the  ocean  with  them  when  they  left  home. 
A  good  portion  of  it  we  found  blowing  furi- 

203 


Among  English  Inns 

ously  along  the  Maud  Foster  Drain.  We 
turned  from  the  drain  to  the  Wide  Bar  Gate, 
a  long  open  space  of  pens,  filled  with  red 
cattle  and  thousands  of  sheep  for  market. 
Above  the  homesick  bleating  of  the  sheep 
arose  the  tones  of  "  Rule  Britannia,"  which 
were  being  flung  into  the  teeth  of  the  east 
wind  by  a  choir  of  small  boys  who  had 
swarmed  up  on  a  monument  made  of  cannon 
acquired  in  some  bygone  Boston  victory,  and 
were  bawling  the  tune  to  please  the  shepherds. 
The  Invalid  soon  began  questioning  a  hand- 
some farmer  with  glowing  cheeks,  whose  good 
looks  were  greatly  enhanced  by  his  immacu- 
late riding  costume. 

"  This  is  the  season  for  big  sheep  markets," 
we  heard  him  say,  "  and  to-day  there  are  a 
great  many  here,  but  Boston  once  had  a  great 
market  at  which  thirty-two  thousand  sheep 
were  sold." 

The  Invalid  was  duly  impressed.  She  tried 
other  questions  in  her  most  fascinating  man- 
ner, but  ended  by  joining  us,  with  the  remark: 
"  Pity  he  knows  nothing  but  sheep!  " 

The  Red  Lion  Inn,  which  faces  the  Narrow 
Bargate,  has  a  more  venerable  exterior  than 
the  Peacock,  but  a  decidedly  decayed  interior. 
It  owns  to  the  age  of  four  hundred  years,  so 

204 


BOSTON    MARKET-PLACE.  —  SHEEP    MARKET   IN    THE    WIDE 
BAR    GATE 


The  Peacock  and  Royal 

no  wonder  that  it  is  neither  very  clean  nor 
very  modern  at  the  present  time.  It  was  for- 
merly the  property  of  one  of  the  Boston  guilds, 
and  in  the  inn  yard  strolling  players  were  wont 
to  perform  for  the  delight  of  all  Boston.  At 
the  other  end  of  the  market-place,  past  our 
lodging  at  the  Peacock,  is  the  South  End,  a 
very  familiar  term  to  the  American  Bostonian. 
The  way  there  leads  past  Shod  Friars  Hall, 
an  antique,  picturesque-appearing  building. 
It  seems  almost  cruel  to  be  forced  to  say  it 
is  but  a  restoration.  Old  Boston,  which  was 
founded  by  hermits,  was  a  famous  place  for 
friars.  They  were  the  revivalists  of  olden 
times,  and  one  family,  the  Tilneys,  were  so 
influenced  that  they  founded  no  fewer  than 
three  friaries  in  Boston,  while  a  fourth,  the 
Carmelites,  was  endowed  by  a  knight  named 
De  Orreby.  For  a  small  city,  Boston  was  in 
olden  times  unusually  well  provided  with  re- 
ligion. Even  the  celebrated  guilds  of  Boston 
were  semi-religious;  nevertheless  Boston,  of 
all  English  cities,  showed  early  the  strongest 
Puritan  spirit  and  the  most  decided  sympathy 
with  every  action  of  the  Reformed  Parliament 
in  England. 

On  the  way  to  South  End  there  still  stand 
many  old  warehouses,  and  one  of  the  largest, 

205 


Among  English  Inns 

Mustard,  Harrow  &  Company,  manufacture 
mushroom  ketchup.  Numerous  houses  of  the 
Georgian  period,  with  broad  gardens  in  front 
of  them,  proclaim  this  end  of  the  town  —  un- 
like its  namesake  in  the  U.  S.  A.  —  a  dwelling- 
place  of  the  rich.  Behind  one  fine  old  man- 
sion is  the  Grammar  School,  built  in  Tudor 
times.  Boston,  England,  is  as  proud  of  the 
scholars  turned  out  by  this  famous  school  as 
the  Boston  over  the  water  ever  has  been  of 
the  glories  of  Harvard.  Once  the  home  of 
those  foreigners  whose  honesty  gave  the  word 
"  sterling "  to  the  English  language,  and  a 
city  so  prosperous  that,  when  King  John  lev- 
ied a  tax  on  all  merchants  within  the  kingdom, 
Boston  paid  the  next  largest  sum  to  London, 
this  city  of  the  Fens  has  suffered  from  the 
decay  of  its  trade  for  several  centuries.  Its 
citizens  and  corporation  hope  for  great  things 
in  the  future,  with  the  completion  of  a  fine 
dock  recently  built  and  capable  of  receiving 
large  ships. 

There  is  almost  no  gentry  living  near  Bos- 
ton, and  no  great  estates  in  the  neighbourhood. 
The  Fen  Country  was  a  desirable  property 
with  which  the  Crown  dared  reward  the 
nobles  in  the  olden  times.  Now  it  is  all  so 
highly  cultivated  that  there  are  no  covers  for 

206 


THE    RIVER    VVYTHAM    AND    ST.    BOTOLPH'S    CHURCH.  —  OLD 
BOSTON    WAREHOUSES.  —  THE    MAUD    FOSTER   DRAIN 


The  Peacock  mid  Royal 

game.     "  No  hunting,  consequently  no  high 
society,"  said  Polly,  regretfully. 

Old  Boston  town,  which  went  to  sleep  after 
the  excitement  furnished  by  the  departure  of 
their  vicar,  John  Cotton,  and  his  followers, 
is  now  just  beginning  to  wake  up  again. 
There  is  still  a  very  stern,  solemn,  Puritanical 
look  about  the  dull  little  Holland-like  city, 
in  spite  of  the  numerous  houses  of  entertain- 
ment. Some  of  these  rejoice  in  extraordinary 
names.  There  is  "  The  Axe  and  Cleaver," 
"  The  Loggerhead,"  "  The  Indian  Queen," 
"  The  Ram,"  "  The  Whale,"  "  The  Unicorn," 
"The  Red  Cow,"  "The  Blue  Lion,"  and 
"  The  Black  Bull."  They  all  furnish  abun- 
dant liquid  refreshment,  with  our  favourite 
"  The  Rum  Puncheon,"  and  the  picturesque 
"  Angel."  Even  the  streets  have  delicious 
names:  "  Paradise  Lane,"  and  "  Pinfold  Al- 
ley," "Liquor  Pond  Street"  and  "Silver 
Street,"  "  The  Worm  Gate,"  "  The  Bar  Gate," 
Wide,  and  Narrow,  and  "  Robin  Hood's 
Walk."  There  is  "  Pump  Square;"  there  Is 
"  Fish  Loft  Road,"  and  in  quaint  "  Spain 
Lane,"  in  a  house  since  demolished,  until  she 
was  fourteen  years  old,  lived  Jean  Ingelow, 
the  writer.  Boston  is  proud  of  its  literary 
celebrities,  and  has  erected  a  statue  to  Herbert 

207 


Among  English  Inns 

Ingram,  the  founder  of  the  London  Illustrated 
News. 

When  we  left  Boston  it  was  again  the  late 
afternoon.  The  sky  was  flooded  with  bril- 
liant orange,  and  light  clouds  tinged  with 
rose  colour  floated  over  the  glowing  surface. 
The  sails  of  the  many  windmills  each  showed 
colour  or  hue.  They  varied  from  violet  to 
bright  orange.  As  we  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow on  one  side  of  the  carriage  the  drains 
ran  gold,  while  from  the  other  side  the  colours 
of  the  fields  were  doubly  strong.  Every  leaf 
stood  out,  vivid  and  distinct,  on  the  fruit-trees, 
shaken  and  bent  by  the  wind.  The  water  of 
the  Big  Drain  ran  dark,  making  the  whiteness 
of  the  many  ducks,  which  were  taking  their 
evening  swim,  almost  dazzling,  and  one  dark 
gray  windmill  on  a  high  dike,  with  its  sails 
pure  white  and  a  roof  richly  red,  looked  like  a 
painted  toy.  Not  an  inch  of  land  in  the  Fen 
Country  is  wasted.  The  well-tilled  fields  are 
divided  by  the  drains  or  thick  thorn  hedges; 
prosperous-looking  haystacks  are  piled  all 
over  them,  promising  good  feed  to  the  herds 
of  cattle  now  eating  the  rich  green  grass,  and 
out  of  the  rosy  mist  rises  in  the  distance  at 
intervals  the  steeple  of  a  village  church,  with 
a  cluster  of  roofs  about  it.     As  soon  as  we 

208 


The  Peacock  and  Royal 

came  upon  an  irregular  gray  stone  farmhouse, 
with  dormer  windows  and  picturesque 
thatched  roof,  we  knew  that  we  had  left 
Lincolnshire  behind  and  were  nearing  Peter- 
boro,  where  we  changed  for  Norwich. 


209 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE  MAID'S  HEAD 

Norwich 


<:/*< 


'HE  first  view 
of  Norwich 
was  slightly 
^  disappointing.  The 
twilight  was  fading 
rapidly,  and  in  the  half-light  the  drive  in  the 
'bus  to  the  Maid's  Head  took  us  through 
streets  which  looked  like  any  other  street  in 
any  other  city.  An  electric  car  which  passed 
us  made  the  resemblance  to  more  common- 
place localities  even  stronger. 

The  Maid's  Head,  one  of  the  most  noted 
inns  in  England,  now  dignified  (or  disgraced) 
by  the  name  of  Hotel,  is  a  judicious  mixture 
of  ancient  and  modern.  After  a  career  which 
associated  its  name  with  some  of  the  most  in- 
teresting and  entertaining  events  in  the  history 

2IO 


The  Maid's  Head 

of  Norwich,  it  was  about  to  pass  into  the  hands 
of  a  brewing  company,  when  it  was  rescued 
and  put  into  its  present  shape  by  Mr.  Walter 
Rye,  a  distinguished  antiquarian,  who  has  the 
interests  of  his  native  city  of  Norwich  very 
near  to  his  heart.  The  fine  Tudor  office,  the 
bar,  and  the  carved  wainscoted  smoke-room 
have  been  saved  from  the  vandals  and  beer- 
drinkers.  The  ancient  gables  look  down 
throughl^e  glass  of  the  roofed-in  courtyard, 
and  Queen  Elizabeth's  room,  with  its  narrow 
private  stairway,  remains  in  all  its  pristine 
glory. 

Queen  Elizabeth,  as  great  a  lover  of  change 
as  Emperor  William,  if  tradition  speaks  truly, 
made  Norfolk  several  visits  during  her  many 
progresses.  In  Norfolk  her  mother's  early 
youth  was  passed. 

The  Maid's  Head  is  full  of  treasures.  The 
corridor  is  hung  with  charming  old  prints, 
and  with  drawings  of  ancient  Norwich  monu- 
ments now  destroyed.  The  bedrooms,  in  spite 
of  their  modern  furniture  and  electric  lights, 
still  show  heavy  oak  beams  across  the  ceil- 
ings, and  the  inside  walls  take  quaint  forms 
from  the  outside  gables.  The  great  assembly- 
room,  at  present  given  over  to  French  cook- 
ing and  a  table  d'hote,  has  witnessed  the  efforts 

211 


Among  E^tglish  Inns 

of  strolling  players  and  the  concerts  of  court 
musicians. 

It  was  in  this  hall,  where  we  hungry  travel- 
lers gathered  about  a  daintily  lighted  little 
table  to  eat  with  the  vigour  of  Goths,  that 
the  good  people  of  Norwich  held  a  meeting 
in  1778,  to  decide  whether  they  should  or 
should  not  collect  money  to  help  conquer 
"  the  American  rebels."  The  Norfolk  men,  it 
seems,  had,  however,  so  many  relatives  and 
friends  among  these  same  rebels,  and  so  little 
love  for  King  George,  that  they  decided  to 
refuse  the  government  pecuniary  assistance. 

Great  feastings  went  on  within  these  four 
walls  early  in  the  history  of  Norwich.  In  the 
Paston  letters  —  and  every  one  who  goes  to 
Norfolk  must  read  the  Paston  letters  —  "Ye 
Mayde's  Hede "  figures  several  times.  All 
the  great  Norfolk  families  patronized  this 
hostelry  on  their  journeys  to  and  from  the 
court  in  London.  The  paved  courtyard  walls 
have  echoed  to  the  wheels  of  the  lumber- 
ing coaches  and  the  hoof-beats  of  the  stout 
travelling  horses  of  the  Howards,  the  Ox- 
fords, the  Walpoles,  and  the  Bullens,  as  they 
drove  in  for  a  halt,  a  change,  or  a  night  in 
Norwich  before  proceeding  farther.  The 
heavy  oaken  iron-barred  doors,  still  to  be  seen 

212 


The  Maid's  Head 

at  the  entrance,  were  hung  here  earlier  in  the 
inn's  history;  indeed  they  were  on  duty  fully 
a  century  before  Sir  John  Paston's  time.  In 
the  thirteenth  or  early  fourteenth  century  a 
robbery  of  some  pilgrims  took  place  in  a  cham- 
ber of  the  Mayde's  Hede.  The  unjust  accusa- 
tion that  the  victims  directed  against  an  inno- 
cent girl  in  their  party  brought  the  landlord 
before  the  courts  of  English  justice,  and  the 
innkeeper  put  up  these  heavy  doors  to  prevent 
thieves  from  entering  in  future. 

The  Maid's  Head  is  a  house  of  entertain- 
ment so  full  of  interest  that  we  each  spent  a 
profitable  evening  reading  the  artistic  little 
pamphlet  containing  its  history,  and  presented 
us  by  the  thoughtful  management,  along  with 
our  rooms. 

Norwich  does  not  get  the  attention  It  de- 
serves from  the  tourist.  We  discovered,  the 
morning  following  our  arrival,  that,  in  spite 
of  the  uninteresting  streets  on  which  we  had 
passed  judgment  the  evening  before,  this  city 
possessed  great  charm  for  the  antiquarian.  It 
is  as  full  of  ancient  flint  churches  as  if  they 
had  been  sprinkled  out  of  a  pepper-pot.  Many 
of  them  are  falling  rapidly  into  a  state  of  utter 
dilapidation,  while  others  have  been  well  re- 
stored. 

213 


Among  English  Inns 

The  narrow  lanes  teem  with  houses  of  the 
most  curious  sort,  with  gables  of  quaint 
shapes  and  heavy  overhanging  fagades,  which 
cluster  about  the  melancholy  old  churches; 
and  it  is  to  be  feared  they  will  soon  all  dis- 
appear, together  with  the  old  lanes  and  alleys, 
which  are  too  narrow  to  admit  of  thorough- 
fare or  other  than  foot-passengers. 

Norwich,  too,  has  a  town-crier,  but  he  is  al- 
together a  much  more  magnificent  personage 
than  his  Boston  confrere.  He  is  a  pompous 
little  man,  with  a  voice  and  a  bell  quite  out 
of  proportion  to  his  stature.  He  hurries  from 
corner  to  corner  with  an  air  of  great  mystery 
and  importance,  halting  only  to  swing  his  loud 
bell  and  announce  that  some  noted  man  has 
died,  or  that  a  church  concert  will  be  given. 
Dressed  in  a  long  blue  coat  much  embellished 
with  red  and  gold,  a  broad  gold  band  around 
his  hat,  and  gold  stripes  down  the  sides  of  his 
trousers,  Norwich  has  cause  to  be  proud  of  its 
town-crier. 

Norwich  has  only  within  the  last  year  or 
so  been  put  upon  the  itinerary  of  the  well- 
known  tourist  agencies.  Not  only  for  its 
noted  cathedral,  still  enclosed  by  the  great 
wall  surrounding  it  in  monkish  times,  but  for 
the  mixture  of  old  and  new  is  this  city  original 

214 


The  Maid's  Head 

and  charming.  Its  position  in  the  centre  of  a 
most  interesting  county  lends  additional  mo- 
tives for  attraction  of  visitors. 

The  cathedral  is  within  a  stone's  throw 
of  the  Maid's  Head.  Its  beautiful  cloisters 
and  splendidly  carved  gateways  do  honour 
to  architects  long  forgotten,  while  its  tall 
spire  towers  loftily  above  the  many  churches 
in  its  neighbourhood.  Near  to  the  cathedral, 
upon  Tombland  Square,  stand  many  noble 
and  ancient  houses.  The  most  interesting  of 
these  is  now  become  an  antiquity  shop,  and  is 
called  the  House  of  the  Giants,  from  two 
great  figures  which  support  the  coping  over 
the  entrance  porch. 

This  square  of  Tombland  was  the  scene  of 
a  horrible  explosion  in  olden  times,  when  an 
enterprising  mayor  sought  to  celebrate  his 
election  in  a  novel  way.  Fireworks  were  then 
little  understood,  and,  while  endeavouring  to 
entertain  his  fellow  citizens  by  a  display  of 
rockets,  the  unfortunate  city  officer  succeeded 
in  killing  several  hundred  of  the  spectators. 

George  Sorrow's  description  of  Norwich 
Is  as  graphic  to-day  as  when  the  author  of 
"  Lavengro,"  a  native  of  Norfolk,  first  wrote 
it:  "A  fine  old  city,"  he  calls  it,  "view  it 
from  whatever  side  you  will  ...  its  thrice 

215 


Among  English  Inns 

twelve  churches,  its  mighty  mound,  which,  if 
tradition  speaks  true,  was  raised  by  human 
hands  to  serve  as  a  grave  heap  for  a  heathen 
king."  The  mound  is  still  topped  by  a  castle, 
but  one  of  modern  date,  while  at  the  bottom, 
on  Saturday,  crowds  gather  to  inspect  the  fine 
fat  cattle  raised  on  Norfolk's  rich  pasture- 
lands,  and  here  offered  for  sale,  and  also  to 
buy  the  handsome  horses  trotted  about  for 
inspection  by  the  successors  of  George  Sor- 
row's gipsy  friend,  Mr.  Pentelengro.  Great 
stallions,  with  their  tails  and  manes  braided 
up  in  straw  or  ribbons,  muscular  ponies,  and 
even  showy  carriage-horses  are  stabled  here 
by  the  dealers  under  the  castle  wall.  Oppo- 
site the  horse  and  cattle  markets,  through  a 
narrow  street  at  the  foot  of  the  mound,  runs 
the  electric  tram,  at  once  the  terror  and  the 
delight  of  the  Norwich  citizen.  It  is  not  a 
formidable  danger,  judged  from  the  stand- 
point of  a  dweller  in  New  York,  and  it  winds 
through  narrow  and  quaintly  named  streets, 
along  Unthank  Road,  Rampant  Horse  Street, 
Grape  Lane,  The  Gentleman's  Walk,  Timber 
Hill,  and  so  on  to  Mousehold  Heath,  the  city's 
park  and  pleasure-ground. 

Past  the  antique  Guild  Hall,  it  Is  a  long 
tram  ride  to  the  Dolphin  Inn  in  the  ancient 

216 


The  Maid's  Head 

hamlet  of  Heigham,  now  a  portion  of  Nor- 
wich. This  inn  was  once  the  country  house 
of  Bishop  Hall.  It  is  an  enchanting  spot  for 
afternoon  tea.  The  river  flows  away  at  the 
bottom  of  its  garden,  a  windmill  is  perched 
up  on  a  low  hill  in  the  distance,  and  a  charm- 
ing view  of  Norwich  forms  a  background. 

The  Invalid,  who  boasts  a  fine  taste  in 
ecclesiastical  architecture,  rather  scorned  the 
cathedral  for  the  sake  of  St.  Peter  Mancroft, 
the  great  church  on  the  market-place.  We 
could  hardly  force  her  to  leave  the  rosy- 
cheeked  sexton,  with  whom  she  had  lengthy 
gossips  concerning  St.  Peter's  history  and  rich 
relics,  and  she  was  amply  rewarded  by  a  sight 
of  the  fine  communion  plate,  the  monument  to 
Sir  Thomas  Browne,  and  the  leather  money 
paid  the  bell-ringers  long  ago,  and  which  they 
could  only  exchange  for  beer.  We  had  no 
chance  to  test  their  powers,  but  the  Invalid 
assured  us,  on  the  authority  of  the  sexton,  that, 
when  the  present  generation  of  St.  Peter's 
ringers  get  the  bells  in  hand,  the  famous  ring- 
ers of  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  hide  their 
diminished  heads  with  shame. 

Polly's  favourite  haunt  in  Norwich  was  the 
book-shop  of  Mr.  Agas  Goose,  In  Rampant 
Horse  Street.    There  she  filled  her  mind  with 

217 


Among  English  Inns 

proper  information  concerning  the  whole  of 
Norfolk  county,  and  the  best  way  to  see  it  in 
the  short  time  we  had  to  spend  there.  It  was 
she  who  decided  that  we  were  to  visit,  of 
all  its  famous  country-seats,  Blickling  Hall, 
which  we  surnamed  "  the  beautiful." 

"  And  when  are  you  going  to  lead  us 
there?  "  questioned  the  Matron,  as  we  sipped 
coffee  and  nibbled  toast  and  coquetted  with 
pink  petals  of  Wiltshire  bacon,  and  discussed 
our  plans. 

"  To-day  at  ten-twenty,  if  we  go  by  train. 
It  is  an  easy  ride  of  ten  miles  by  bicycle,  if 
any  one  chooses  that  method  of  locomotion," 
was  the  prompt  reply. 

But  the  longer  ride  by  rail  tempted  us  in 
our  indolence,  and  accordingly  we  "  booked  " 
for  Aylsham,  the  railroad  station  nearest  to 
Blickling.  Aylsham  revealed  its  incontest- 
able charms  as  we  walked  up  from  its  station, 
by  a  dear  old  manor-house,  now  vacant,  and 
surrounded  by  a  fine  park  gone  nearly  wild. 

"  How  I  should  like  to  hire  it  and  write 
a  story  about  it,"  said  the  Invalid,  who  never 
wrote  a  line  in  her  life,  and  whose  ideas  of 
the  uncertain  profits  of  literature  are  vague. 
This  sad-looking  brick  manor-house,  deserted 
since  the  last  heir  vanished  from  history,  sits 

218 


The  Maid's  Head 

in  a  tangle  of  wild  roses  and  shrubbery,  and 
would  afford  a  perfect  scene  for  a  novel. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  town,  as  soon  as  we 
could  manage  to  get  the  Invalid  and  Polly 
past  a  cottage  where  they  hung  over  the  pal- 
ings wrapt  in  admiration  at  the  profusion,  size, 
and  colour  of  some  wonderful  begonias,  we 
started  out,  along  the  smooth  flint  Norfolk 
road  lined  with  fascinating  country  houses  of 
ancient  make,  and  between  two  rows  of  great 
elm-trees,  to  Anne  BuUen's  ancestral  home. 

Blickling  Hall  bursts  a  bit  suddenly  on  the 
view.  It  looks  more  Frencb  than  English,  at 
the  end  of  a  grass  and  gravelled  court,  with 
low  stables,  as  at  Fontainebleau,  stretching 
down  on  either  side  of  the  court  to  the  gate. 
The  entrance  to  the  garden  is  through  a  col- 
onnade, and  the  like  of  this  garden  grows  no- 
where save  in  England.  It  spreads  its  beau- 
ties on  but  one  side  of  this  fine  old  Tudor 
mansion.  The  beds,  in  which  each  flower 
which  grows  is  doing  its  mightiest  to  make 
the  sweetness  of  its  scented  pleasure  felt,  are 
divided  by  great,  fine  clipped  walls  of  box. 
Nowhere  is  a  richer  or  more  democratic  gar- 
den. There  the  nobles  and  commons,  the 
great  and  the  humble  ones  of  the  floral  king- 
dom, who,  regardless  of  season,  blow  and  blos- 

219 


Among  English  Inns 

som  with  all  their  power.  Beyond  the  great 
carpet  of  flowers  stretches  for  acres  a  wide 
demesne  of  dense  groves  and  long,  shady  paths, 
in  which  Anne  Bullen  is  said  to  wander  and 
to  wail  by  night  for  her  lost  home  and  happi- 
ness. 

Within  the  Hall,  on  the  great  staircase 
which  divides  at  the  landing,  are  tv/o  por- 
traits carved  in  wood.  In  one  of  them,  Anne 
Bullen  stands  here  revealed  in  all  the  sprightly 
charm  which  captivated  Henry's  fickle  heart, 
in  spite  of  her  somewhat  plain  face.  She  dis- 
plays a  style,  a  dash,  an  entrancing  coquetry, 
which,  from  the  other  pictures  we  had  seen  of 
this  unhappy  woman,  we  had  never  suspected. 
In  the  opposite  carving,  her  daughter,  Queen 
Elizabeth,  stands  stifif  in  a  bedizened  costume, 
lacking  all  the  grace  of  her  mother.  About 
this  attractive,  homelike  mansion  everywhere 
the  black  bull  of  the  Bullen  family  crest  is 
to  be  seen,  either  carved  in  wood  or  inlaid  in 
marble.  The  restorations  and  the  splendid 
new  library  on  the  garden  side  are  models  of 
the  perfect  taste  of  their  modern  designers. 

At  the  gate  of  Blickling  Hall  is  a  little  inn 
called  the  Buckinghamshire  Arms.  It  is  one 
of  those  inns  which  have  been  lately  estab- 
lished in  England  to  discourage  the  sale  of 

220 


The  Maid's  Head 

alcoholic  drinks  by  making  it  more  profitable 
to  the  innkeeper  to  sell  milder  beverages. 
The  Buckinghamshire  Arms  is  said  to  be  a 
very  successful  experiment.  It  is  neat,  clean, 
a  relic  in  architecture  of  Tudor  days,  dressed 
up  a  little  to  suit  modern  times,  and  there  we 
had  a  most  excellent  luncheon  for  the  price 
of  one  shilling  each. 

The  church  at  Blickling  has  a  fine  marble 
monument  to  the  memory  of  the  late  Marquis 
of  Lothian.  Here  also  are  many  relics  of  the 
very  early  days  when  the  church  was  put  up 
or  the  foundations  put  down.  The  dates  be- 
ing somewhat  efifaced,  the  sexton  makes  them 
as  remote  as  he  chooses. 

After  viewing  house  and  park,  we  still  had 
two  good  hours  before  train-time,  so  we 
strolled  along  slowly  back  to  Aylsham.  Be- 
fore us  strode  three  farm  labourers,  going 
home  after  hoeing  in  a  field,  —  a  father  and 
his  two  sons,  or  it  might  possibly  have  been 
a  grandfather,  father,  and  son. 

^'  Behold  the  true  kernel  of  the  British  nut!  " 
exclaimed  the  admiring  Matron,  as  the  three 
men,  straight  of  limb,  flat  of  back,  and  broad 
of  shoulder,  started  off  so  briskly  that  it  was 
impossible  to  believe  they  had  been  bent  up 
nearly  double  all  day.     The  boy,  whose  age 

221 


Among  English  Inns 

was  perhaps  fourteen,  stopped  at  a  gate  to 
shoulder  a  heavy  bag  of  potatoes.  After  he 
raised  the  sack  over  his  shoulder,  he  stood  per- 
fectly erect,  in  spite  of  the  heavy  weight,  and, 
puckering  up  his  lips,  began  to  whistle  what 
he  imagined  to  be  a  tune;  then  started  off 
at  a  pace  which  soon  left  us  far  behind. 

In  Aylsham  there  is  a  great  old  church  of 
John  of  Gaunt's  time,  with  a  venerable  lich- 
gate at  the  entrance  to  the  churchyard.  The 
interior,  however,  has  been  too  much  restored, 
as  is  often  the  case  in  Norfolk,  and  it  is  spoiled 
by  being  crowded  with  pews. 

After  the  day  of  delights  at  Blickling,  we 
took  train  the  following  morning  in  Norwich, 
and  rattled  away,  through  corn  and  turnip- 
fields,  past  red  farms  and  square  gray  church 
towers,  a  brief  twenty  miles,  to  Yarmouth  on 
the  North  Sea  shore.  The  waves  of  this  sea 
play  wild  games,  they  told  us,  with  parts  of 
the  Norfolk  coast.  At  some  points  it  has 
wiped  out  whole  villages,  at  another  it  has 
dashed  up  great  sand-dunes  and  burled  church 
and  tower  and  surrounding  houses  out  of 
sight. 

Old  Yarmouth,  cockney  resort  though  it 
be,  is  more  interesting  to  the  lover  of  the 
quaint  and  curious  than  any  of  the  other  more 

222 


The  Maid's  Head 

fashionable  and  less  historic  places  on  the 
Norfolk  coast.  It  has,  to  be  sure,  a  Parade 
for  the  pleasure  of  the  tripper,  and  long  streets 
of  commonplace  houses  like  those  of  every 
English  seaside  town.  Down  behind  all  this 
modern  sea-wall,  however,  in  the  ancient  town 
where  the  Peggottys  wandered,  are  the  curi- 
ous Yarmouth  Rows.  These  are  narrow  pas- 
sages between  the  high  houses,  where  neigh- 
bours can  shake  hands  across  the  opening 
from  the  windows  of  their  homes.  Unlike 
similar  passages  in  old  Continental  towns,  the 
Yarmouth  Rows  are  clean  and  fresh. 

We  ate  our  dinner  at  "  The  Star,"  looking 
out  at  the  many  gaudy  boats  tied  up  by  the 
side  of  the  solid  stone  quay  along  the  river. 
Black  sails  from  the  Broads,  and  red  sails 
from  the  south  coast  were  drying  out  side  by 
side,  while  the  sharp-arched  bridge,  like  a 
Chinese  print,  led  our  eyes  over  to  the 
weather-worn  warehouses  on  the  other  side. 
Our  hot  luncheon,  price,  "  two  and  six,"  was 
just  like  any  other  hot  luncheon.  It  con- 
sisted of  the  usual  joint,  potatoes  and  cabbage, 
and  a  tart.  With  eyes  closed,  we  could  imag- 
ine eating  it  in  any  part  of  England  through 
which  we  had  passed,  but,  looking  over  the 
well-known   menu,   we   forgot   its   monotony 

223 


Among  English  Inns 

because  of  the  noble  room  in  which  it  was 
served.  "  The  Star  "  was  once  the  home  of 
one  of  those  judges  who  condemned  Charles, 
the  king,  to  death.  This  room,  with  its  su- 
perbly carved  black  oak  walls,  its  lovely- 
plaster  ceiling  and  quaint  blue-tiled  fire- 
place, remains  as  it  was  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  it  is  the  pride  of  the  present  host 
and  owner  of  the  hotel.  Once  upon  a  time 
a  wealthy  American  offered  the  generous  sum 
of  six  thousand  pounds  for  its  panelled  walls, 
ceiling,  and  fireplace.  He  wished  to  trans- 
port them  across  the  ocean  to  his  fine  new 
house  in  the  States;  but  the  owner  of  ''The 
Star  "  proved  to  be  a  man  of  sentiment  and 
artistic  appreciation.  He  disdained  the  offer, 
and  we  rejoiced  in  his  admirable  decision. 

It  was  on  one  of  our  many  journeys  by  rail 
through  Norfolk  that  we  had  caught  sight  of 
ruined  towers  and  arches  amid  the  foliage, 
and  discovered  our  American  weakness  for 
antiquarian  research  and  the  study  of  church 
architecture.  Therefore,  as  we  rattled  away 
in  the  train  from  Yarmouth,  again  bound  for 
our  headquarters  in  Norwich,  we  agreed 
upon  a  bicycle  trip  or  two.  Our  conclusion 
was  to  follow  the  queer  highways  to  the  haunts 
of  the  ancient,  the  beautiful,  and  the  grace- 

224 


The  Maid's  Head 

fully  dilapidated.  Our  consultation  in  the 
railway  carriage  resulted  in  an  agreement  to 
forswear  a  visit  to  modern  and  royal  San- 
dringham,  and  give  time  and  attention  and 
admiration  to  Wymondham,  where  there  is 
a  ruined  abbey,  and  to  Thetford,  an  ancient 
Royal  city. 

Wymondham,  by  the  way,  is  pronounced 
as  if  it  were  spelled  Windham,  for  Norfolk 
is  the  prize  county  of  all  England  for  serious 
differences  between  the  spelling  and  pronun- 
ciation of  proper  names.  In  preparation  for 
this  bicycle  excursion,  Polly  and  I  bestirred 
ourselves  early,  and  got  four  wheels  down  to 
the  ten  o'clock  train  going  south.  We  had 
bought  tickets  both  for  machines  and  for  the 
people  who  were  to  ride  them,  before  the 
Matron  and  the  Invalid  came  to  the  platform 
gate.  The  bicycle  tickets  cost  three  pence 
each;  without  tickets  the  wheels  are  not  al- 
lowed on  the  train. 

They  have  a  way  in  rural  England  of  keep- 
ing the  railway  from  spoiling  all  pretty  vil- 
lages by  its  bustle  and  smoke,  and  this  pre- 
caution Involves  a  station  sometimes  a  very 
long  way  from  the  attractive  parts  of  the  little 
towns.  Neither  the  Invalid  nor  the  Matron 
got  a  chance  to  fuss  nor  to  make  themselves 

225 


Among  English  Inns 

miserable  about  the  bicycles.  We  said  not  a 
word  to  them  about  our  arrangements,  but  let 
them  enjoy  the  Norfolk  scenery  without  anx- 
ious anticipations.  The  substantial  walls  of 
Coleman's  Mustard  Factory,  just  outside  Nor- 
wich, the  plumy  trees  of  Hetherset,  the 
ancient  granges  by  the  roadside,  and  the 
numerous  flint  churches  so  aroused  their  en- 
thusiasm and  engaged  their  whole  attention 
that,  when  we  presented  them  at  Wymond- 
ham  station  with  bicycles  to  ride  to  the  then 
invisible  town,  never  a  question  nor  an  objec- 
tion did  either  of  them  oflfer.  Their  interest 
and  admiration  were  wholly  absorbed  by  the 
long  lines  of  glittering  flint  walls,  beautifully 
put  together,  and  surrounding  ancient  flint 
churches,  with  thatched  roofs,  built  to  last  to 
eternity  of  that  proverbially  hard  substance. 
The  flints,  cracked  in  half  for  building,  shine 
in  the  sun  as  though  artificially  polished,  and, 
at  nearer  range,  show  blue,  white,  pink,  and 
black,  their  irregular  surfaces  shining  like 
jewels. 

"  I  believe  the  monks  have  only  gone  of¥ 
for  a  pilgrimage,  and  will  be  back  to-mor- 
row," was  the  Matron's  first  comment,  as  we 
rode  down  the  street  of  Wymondham  in  the 
shadow  of  overhanging  gables. 

226 


The  Maid's  Head 

"  We  shall  probably  find  a  fat  old  cellarer 
in  here,"  said  Polly,  when  we  entered  at  the 
sign  of  "  The  Green  Dragon  "  to  order  lunch. 
Never  did  there  exist  a  more  perfect  little 
hostelry  than  this.  It  has  lingered  on  to  hale 
old  age  from  some  time  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, when  the  abbey  was  in  its  glory.  Then 
this  jewel  of  an  inn  was  used  as  a  shelter  for 
lay  guests.  It  is  a  cosy  place,  but  now  too 
small  to  afTford  sleeping-room  for  any  but  the 
innkeeper  and  his  family. 

Under  the  carved  beam  which  supports  the 
overhanging  casements  we  found  an  opening 
to  a  narrow  passage  warped  by  age  or  the 
inaccuracy  of  the  monkish  architect.  Before 
this  entrance  hangs  a  nail-studded  door  strong 
enough  for  a  fortress.  Through  a  stuccoed 
corridor,  one  way  led  to  the  present  tap-room. 
Before  the  rest  of  us  had  finished  admiring 
the  exterior,  the  Invalid  was  deep  in  conver- 
sation with  the  rosy-cheeked,  buxom  landlady, 
who  sat  behind  a  tiny  bar.  This  bar  in  monk- 
ish times  was  a  cupboard.  Sticklers  for  pres- 
ervation of  antiques  as  we  are,  we  did  not 
think  is  a  very  aggressive  innovation  to  make 
a  bar  of  this  little  bowed  window  in  the  cor- 
ner, where  all  the  bright  mugs  and  polished 
glasses  hung  as   a  background  to   the   most 

227 


Among  English  Inns 

respectable  of  barmaids.  The  heavy  oak 
beams  of  the  ceiling  in  the  quaint  hall,  black 
with  age,  are  upheld  with  rudely  carved  fig- 
ures of  the  knights  who  may  have  feasted 
here.  The  marks  of  the  sculptor's  tools  are 
upon  them  and  on  the  carvings  which  adorn 
the  great  fireplace. 

"  Don't  turn  the  knob,  Polly,  or  a  monk 
will  pop  out  of  that  low  cellar  door,"  I  ad- 
vised cautiously,  as  that  inquisitive  maiden 
embarked  on  one  of  her  voyages  of  discovery 
around  the  rooms. 

"  Tumble  out,  you  mean.  I  know  there  is 
one  in  there,  all  vine  grown,  who  has  been 
sipping  for  centuries  at  the  noble  wine  laid 
down  for  guests  three  hundred  years  ago," 
she  retorted,  falling  in  with  our  mood. 

"  He  can't  get  out,"  advised  the  Matron. 
^'  Don't  you  see  the  huge  bunch  of  keys  hang- 
ing on  the  antlers  above  the  door?  A  prima 
donna  will  perhaps  trip  down  those  stairs  in 
the  corner  if  we  stop  here  long  enough,"  she 
continued,  seriously.  "  Did  you  ever  lunch  in 
a  stage  inn  before,  all  set  for  the  first  act?  " 

"  I  want  but  one  pull  at  one  of  those  leather 
tankards,"  said  Polly,  longingly,  "  and  then 
I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  more  about 
Wymondham  Abbey  than  any  guide-book." 

218 


The  Maid's  Head 

"  Yes,  ladies,  you  can  have  tea  and  bread 
and  butter,  and  eggs  any  way  you  choose, 
ready  in  half  an  hour,"  was  the  landlady's 
practical  contribution  to  the  conversation,  as, 
bustling  in,  she  unconsciously  sent  our  imag- 
inations back  to  the  wants  of  the  present  time. 

We  stacked  our  bicycles  before  the  inn's 
door,  for  the  churchyard  where,  among  the 
old  cedars,  stand  the  picturesque  remains  of 
the  great  abbey,  is  near. 

Wymondham  Priory  was  founded  in  1107. 
It  was  a  very  rich  institution,  with  all  sorts 
of  privileges,  which  made  the  monks  very 
independent  of  the  higher  church  authorities. 
They  owned  fields  and  meadows  and  all  the 
lands  about,  and  even  changed  the  king's  high- 
way to  suit  themselves.  A  quarrel  between 
the  prior  and  a  jealous  superior,  the  Abbot  of 
St.  Albans,  caused  the  Pope  to  turn  the  priory 
into  an  abbey  for  the  Benedictines  in  1448, 
and  such  it  remained  until  the  time  of  the 
dissolution.  Another  difference,  with  the 
Archdeacon  of  Norfolk,  took  the  parish 
church  from  the  jurisdiction  of  the  abbey, 
and  it  was  then  that  the  queer  things  hap- 
pened which  gave  the  parish  church  its  pres- 
ent unusual  architectural  peculiarities.  The 
Pope  decided  that  the  abbot  had  no  jurisdic- 

229 


Among  English  Inns 

tion  over  the  parishioners;  the  monks  at  once 
made  a  division  in  the  church,  and  built  an- 
other tower,  in  v^hich  to  hang  the  bell  which 
called  them  to  matins  and  primes.  The  parish 
church  with  the  parish  bell-tower  is  pre- 
served as  in  ancient  times,  but  the  monks'  beau- 
tiful tower,  built  in  1260,  is  a  ruin  draped 
from  top  to  bottom  with  green  vines.  The 
parish  church  has  a  superb  wooden  ceiling  in 
the  nave,  the  spandrels  springing  from  the 
backs  of  winged  angels  resting  on  grotesque 
heads. 

It  is  easy  to  trace  the  former  entrances  to 
the  cloisters,  the  chapter-house,  and  the  vari- 
ous portions  of  the  abbey  by  the  closed  door- 
ways still  visible.  Extending  over  the  church- 
yard from  this  fine  shattered  tower  are  groups 
of  clustered  columns  and  picturesque  arches, 
—  all  that  now  remains  of  the  abbey's  old 
glory. 

"  I  am  quite  satisfied  that  I  have  seen  the 
finest  old  church  in  Norfolk,"  declared  the 
Invalid,  our  chief  amateur  student  of  antique 
places  of  worship.  "  There  may  be  others, 
but,  as  we  have  not  months  to  spare  here,  I 
am  glad  to  take  home  a  remembrance  of  the 
noble  beauty  of  these  dignified  aisles." 

An  ancient  font,  mutilated  but  still  beauti- 
230 


The  Maid's  Head 

ful,  the  pulpit,  the  chapels,  and  the  base  of 
the  font  were  being  that  day  decorated  with 
fruits,  vegetables,  and  flowers  for  the  Harvest 
Festival. 

The  many  venerable  cedars  in  the  church- 
yard suit  the  old  place  admirably,  and  so  do 
the  solemn,  sleepy  dwellings  about  the  close. 
The  old  Green  Dragon  stood  genial  and 
smiling.  It  will  take  more  storms  than  the 
little  inn  has  yet  weathered  to  wear  off  the 
jolly  remembrance  of  its  youth. 

Whether  it  was  that  the  landlady  heard 
Polly's  shivering  at  ghostly  monks,  or  simply 
because  she  wanted  us  to  enjoy  freedom  from 
intrusion,  but  she  served  our  simple  lunch  in 
a  little  sitting-room,  one  side  all  lattice  win- 
dow, and  with  a  ceiling  so  low  that  the  short- 
est member  of  the  party  could  touch  it  with 
an  extra  stretch  of  the  arm.  Great  poppies 
on  the  paper  and  a  wide  fireplace  caused  the 
Matron  to  nod  approval,  as  she  devoured  sev- 
eral extra  slices  of  delicious  cake. 

The  landlady,  probably  in  gratitude  for  be- 
ing answered  all  sorts  of  ingeniously  conceived 
questions  about  America,  recommended  us  ear- 
nestly to  ride  out  to  Stanfield  Hall.  It  is  not 
more  than  two  miles  from  town.  An  atrocious 
murder  having  been  committed  there  in  1848, 

231 


Among  English  Inns 

and  Wymondham  folk  have  not  yet  recovered 
from  what  to  them  is  but  a  recent  excitement. 
The  present  house  is  an  Elizabethan  moated 
grange  surrounded  by  an  unkempt  park  full 
of  oak-trees;  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  is 
unaccountably  sad  and  gloomy,  but  the  melan- 
choly is  perhaps  not  so  much  due  to  the  tragic 
death  of  the  later  master  who  was  shot  here 
by  his  tenant  and  bailifif,  as  to  the  memories 
of  Amy  Robsart,  who  wandered  under  the 
shade  of  the  ancient  trees  with  Leicester  in 
the  short  bright  days  when  he  wooed  her. 
This  old  estate  was  her  father's  home.  Leices- 
ter, then  Lord  Robert  Dudley,  came  wounded 
to  old  Stanfield  Hall  when  his  duty  brought 
him  to  Norfolk  with  the  troops  at  the  time 
of  the  Ket  rebellion,  and  Amy  nursed  him 
and  loved  him.  The  road  to  Stanfield,  one  of 
those  perfect  Norfolk  highways  which  puts 
all  other  roads  to  shame,  leads  along  with 
only  one  turn  between  the  town  and  the  Hall, 
passing  fascinating  old  farmhouses,  none 
younger  than  the  age  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
with  their  front  gardens  decorated  with 
quaint  sun-dials,  stilted  rows  of  box,  and  fan- 
cifully trimmed  bay-trees. 

"  We  are  the  perfect  time-keepers,"  said 
Polly,  as  we  rode  up  to  the  station  just  one 

232 


The  Maid's  Head 

minute  before  the  Thetford  train  was  due. 
When  we  got  to  Thetford,  we  very  nearly- 
wished  we  had  stayed  in  curious  old 
Wymondham. 

"  This  may  be  an  ancient  royal  city,"  said 
the  Matron,  "  but  it  looks  more  early  Vic- 
torian." 

"  But  here  is  one  of  Mr.  Pickwick's  inns 
to  console  us,"  said  the  Invalid,  as  we  rode  into 
the  court  of  "  The  BellJ'  a  marked  contrast 
to  the  thirteenth-century  style  of  the  Green 
Dragon. 

"Those  deceptive  guide-books!"  indig- 
nantly exclaimed  the  Matron,  without  notic- 
ing the  interruption.  "  I  supposed  these 
streets  would  be  full  of  queer  old  things,  and 
all  I  see  is  a  Jane  Austen  house  or  two." 

We  did  not  ask  what  a  Jane  Austen  house 
was,  but  we  did  try  to  get  some  information 
from  the  green-aproned  Boots  at  the  Bell 
concerning  the  King's  House,  certain  as- 
surance of  its  existence  having  been  dug  by 
me  out  of  our  Norfolk  Guide. 

"  I  never  heard  of  no  King's  House.  Did 
you  mean  the  house  of  Mr.  King?  "  was  his 
lucid  reply. 

The  guide-book  had  told  us  that  immedi- 
ately upon  entering  Thetford  we  should  be- 


Among  English  Inns 

come  conscious  of  its  antiquity.  Wc  stared 
about  in  indignant  disgust. 

"  That  writer  could  not  have  known  Wy- 
mondham,"  said  Polly.  "  I  only  see  Geor- 
gian houses,  but  perhaps  we  are  not  experts." 

At  last  we  found  the  so-called  King's  House, 
a  former  country  residence  of  English  kings, 
now  a  plain  square  brick  mansion  set  in  a 
garden  and  showing  a  small  royal  emblem 
stuck  up  above  the  flat  cornice. 

"  This  is  all  the  king  left  there,"  said  Polly, 
as  she  pointed  her  camera  in  the  air.  Thet- 
ford,  wc  discovered  for  ourselves,  possesses 
an  artificial  mound  as  large  as  the  castle 
foundations  at  Norwich.  There  we  also  found 
a  fine  Elizabethan  house  down  near  the  mill- 
stream,  and  outside  the  town  lies  a  huge  rab- 
bit-warren extending  for  miles.  It  seemed  to 
go  on  for  ever  over  hill  and  hollow,  and  the 
little  cottontails  were  skipping  around,  or 
sunning  themselves  outside  their  front  doors, 
in  the  tamest  sort  of  way,  not  at  all  like  their 
wild  Dartmoor  kindred.  Their  silver-tipped 
tails  amid  the  bracken  made  the  whole  great 
undulating  plain  flash  and  sparkle. 

The  Bell  Inn  is  the  most  ancient  and  ad- 
mirable structure  remaining  in  Thetford,  but 
all  the  quaintness  is  on  the  outside.    The  in- 

234 


THE  RUINS  OF  WYMONDHAM  PRIORY.  —  THE  GREEN 
DRAGON  INN,  WYMONDHAM.  —  A  THETFORD  WIN- 
DOW.—  THE    INN    AT    BLICKLIXG 


The  Maid's  Head 

side  has  followed  the  prevailing  Thetford 
fashion  and  become  Georgian.  The  tea  we 
found  was  of  the  extreme  modern  sort,  —  very 
dear  and  no  flavour. 

"  After  all,  it  was  a  delightful  day,"  said 
the  Invalid,  as  we  said  farewell  to  the  last  of 
the  Thetford  antiquities,  the  abbey  gateway 
near  the  station,  which  is  really  more  royal 
than  the  King's  House.  It  led  formerly  to 
Thetford  Abbey,  the  ancient  burial-place  of 
the  Dukes  of  Norfolk. 


ns 


CHAPTER   X 


ANGEL  INN 
Acle  Bridge 


ITHOUT  a  sail  on 
the  Broads,  I  refuse 
to  leave  Norfolk," 
declared  the  Matron,  as  we  sat  at  dinner  the 
night  of  our  return  from  Thetford.  "  It 
would  be  rather  hard  to  answer  the  questions 
our  numerous  friends  will  ask  when  they  hear 
we  have  been  in  Norfolk." 

"  I  know  lots  of  people  at  home  who  think 
there  is  nothing  to  see  in  Norfolk  but  San- 
dringham  and  the  Broads,"  continued  the  In- 
valid. 

"  And  are  not  quite  sure  about  Sandring- 
ham,  either,"  finished  Polly.  "  I  don't  see 
how  we  are  going  to  manage  it,"  said  Polly. 

236 


Angel  Inn 

"  Go  ask  the  hotel  manager,  that  is  the 
wisest  way,  and  we  will  decide  ourselves  when 
we  hear  what  he  tells  you." 

So  Polly  left  us  to  go  into  the  pretty  Jaco- 
bean office,  which  looks  for  all  the  world  like 
a  monstrous  piece  of  oak  furniture,  and  we 
went  on  to  warm  ourselves  before  the  great 
thirteenth-century  fireplace  in  the  reading- 
room.  What  a  comfortable,  great  room  it 
was!  with  writing-tables  and  tables  covered 
with  current  literature.  Our  good  luck  in- 
spired a  gentleman  sitting  next  us  to  talk  to 
his  wife  of  a  cruise  they  were  preparing  to 
take  on  the  Broads.  He  had  been  that  day 
to  engage  a  large  wherry  at  Thorpe  just  be- 
yond the  railroad  station,  and  the  couple  were 
preparing  to  live  on  the  boat  for  two  weeks. 
From  his  conversation  we  inferred  that  he  had 
evidently  rented  a  large  boat  capable  of  ac- 
commodating five  or  six  people,  for  which  he 
was  to  pay  a  pound  a  day.  A  man  and  a  lad 
constituted  the  crew.  How  we  wished  we 
could  exchange  our  coming  ocean  voyage  and 
the  big  rocking  steamer  for  such  a  quiet  cruise 
and  such  a  roomy  wherry!  The  gentleman 
went  ofif  to  complete  his  plans.  He  was  not 
well  out  of  the  room,  however,  before  the 
Invalid  was   deep   in   conversation  with   his 


Among  English  Inns 

lady,  and  asking  questions  in  her  most  en- 
chanting manner.  Who  would  not  tell  the 
Invalid  all  she  wants  to  know  when  she  cocks 
her  pretty  head  on  one  side  and  looks  so 
deeply  interested?  She  entices  knowledge 
from  every  one  she  meets. 

Polly  returned  while  the  Invalid  was  imbib- 
ing knowledge,  and  our  scheme  for  the  mor- 
row was  satisfactorily  arranged  before  the 
questioner  rejoined  us,  bursting  with  informa- 
tion. 

"  They  will  take  only  a  few  tinned  deli- 
cacies," she  began,  but  never  finished;  we 
were  too  full  of  our  own  projects  to  listen 
to  what  others  intended  doing. 

"  We  are  in  great  luck,"  began  Polly. 
"  The  manager  referred  me  to  the  lady-man- 
ager, who,  when  she  heard  what  we  wanted, 
at  once  said  that  there  happened  to  be  two 
young  men  stopping  in  the  hotel  who  had 
a  large  wherry  at  Wroxham  Bridge  which 
they  wanted  sailed  down  to  Yarmouth.  She 
had  heard  them  talking  about  it  to-day.  They 
would  let  us  hire  it,  she  was  sure,  because 
they  did  not  wish  to  rejoin  the  boat  until  some- 
time at  the  end  of  the  week.  If  the  wind  is 
right,  she  says  we  can  make  the  necessary 
twenty-six  miles  in  a  day.     Even  if  there  is 

238 


Angel  Inn 

not  a  spanking  breeze,  it  will  be  possible  to 
see  one  or  two  of  the  Broads,  and  come  back 
by  rail  from  Salhouse  or  Acle.  The  mana- 
geress then  went  off  to  fetch  one  of  the  young 
men,  and  came  back  instead  with  their  deci- 
sion. We  can  have  the  boat  to-morrow  morn- 
ing if  we  are  each  willing  to  pay  them  three 
dollars  apiece  for  the  day's  pleasure;  that 
sum  will  include  luncheon,  which  we  can  take 
from  here." 

"  Oh,  why  not  stop  at  a  riverside  inn," 
exclaimed  the  Matron. 

*'  We  won't  have  much  time  for  stopping 
unless  the  wind  blows  a  gale  or  doesn't  blow 
at  all,"  answered  Polly. 

So  we  decided  to  take  the  wherry  and  see 
what  we  could. 

We  woke  early  on  the  eventful  day  to  find 
the  weather  all  we  desired.  Our  plan  of  ac- 
tion included  a  very  early  breakfast  and  an 
early  train  to  Wroxham  Bridge,  where  we 
were  to  join  "  our  ship,"  as  Polly  insisted 
upon  calling  it. 

"  Come  early  and  avoid  confusion,"  was  the 
somewhat  banal  quotation  the  Invalid  made 
when  we  stepped  into  the  railroad  carriage. 
For  the  first  time  in  our  travelling  experi- 

239 


Among  English  Inns 

ence,  Thorpe  station  did  not  resemble  a  hive 
of  crazed  bees.  The  English  are  not  com- 
monly stirring  very  early  in  the  morning,  and 
there  were  but  a  few  passengers  in  the  train 
besides  ourselves.  Wroxham  Bridge  lies  eight 
miles  from  Norwich,  and  we  were  soon  on 
board  the  wherry,  which  we  found  waiting  at 
the  landing.  "There  was  a  good  breeze!" 
the  skipper  informed  us.  "  If  it  kept  up,  we 
would  be  able  to  make  our  voyage  to  Yar- 
mouth." 

As  the  skipper  proceeded  to  haul  up  the 
sail,  the  Matron  exclaimed  with  delight:  "  It 
is  black!" 

"  And  we  have  a  pink  and  purple  boat," 
chimed  in  Polly. 

"  Only  green  and  red,"  contradicted  the 
Invalid. 

At  Wroxham  Bridge  countless  boats  of  all 
sizes  are  gathered  together.  This  is  the  halt- 
ing-place for  most  of  those  who  sail  the 
Broads.  We  had  twenty-six  miles  before  us, 
—  the  distance  by  water  to  Yarmouth,  —  and 
we  flew  along  with  our  black  sail  reefed.  We 
skimmed  between  the  flower-decked  banks  of 
the  narrow  stream  into  a  spacious  sheet  of 
green  rippling  water,  called  Wroxham  Broad. 


240 


Angel  Inn 

Polly  asked  the  skipper  why  these  little  lakes 
are  called  Broads. 

"  Because  the  stream  is  broad  here,"  was 
the  lucid  answer. 

Wroxham  stretched  out  before  us  like  a 
long  lake.  The  reeds  grew  thick  on  the  shore, 
and  beyond  them  were  clumps  of  low  trees 
and  broad  meadows  of  soft-coloured  grass, 
green  fruitful  park-lands,  and  glimpses  of 
cattle  in  the  shade.  From  Wroxham  Broad 
our  boat  wound  down  a  small  stream,  past  a 
quaint  village  built  along  the  water's  edge 
on  low  swampy  ground,  showing  colours  of 
purple,  green,  yellow,  and  red  in  the  meadow- 
grass.  Away  we  went  past  a  delightful, 
quaint  inn  at  Horning  Ferry.  Here  the  Ma- 
tron clamoured  to  stop  and  eat  lunch  under 
the  sturdy  willow-trees,  but  time  was  precious 
and  the  wind  in  our  favour,  and  the  skipper 
would  not  allow  us  to  stop  at  Ranworth  if  we 
lingered  at  Horning  Ferry.  The  Invalid  had 
registered  a  vow  to  see  in  that  hamlet  an  old 
church  which  boasts  a  celebrated  rood  screen. 
We  therefore  sailed  along,  discussing  willows 
and  luncheon  at  the  same  time,  and  we  were 
In  Ranworth  Broad,  flying  before  the  wind, 
before  we  had  ceased  regretting  the  Horning 
inn.    The  hills  suddenly  rose  on  one  side  of 

241 


Among  English  Inns 

the  water.  Thick  trees  crowned  their  sides, 
but  we  got  peeps  at  neat  cottages  and  a  church 
or  two.  Before  we  entered  Ranworth  Broad, 
the  skipper  told  us  of  a  model  village,  Wood- 
bastwick,  where  the  cottages  are  said  to  be  like 
rose  bowers,  the  village  green  is  an  ideal  spot, 
and  the  church  is  full  of  wonderful  brasses. 

"Why  can't  we  see  everything?"  sighed 
the  Invalid. 

"  It  is  sometimes  more  satisfactory  to  hear 
descriptions  than  to  see  places,"  replied  the 
suspicious  Polly. 

We  pushed  in  among  the  rushes  about  the 
landing-place,  where  lay  bundles  of  reeds 
stacked  up  for  the  thatchers,  and  the  only 
building  visible  was  a  hoary  old  cottage,  de- 
serted save  by  a  cat  and  her  kittens  who  were 
having  great  games  together  in  the  small 
window. 

A  tidy  old  inn,  the  Malster,  was  discov- 
ered at  a  turn  in  the  road,  and  Polly  and  I 
went  in  to  see  if  the  landlady  could  furnish 
us  with  some  cream  for  our  tea,  while  the 
Matron  and  the  Invalid  took  their  way  on- 
ward up  a  short  hilly  road  to  the  church. 

Ranworth  is  a  hamlet.  It  has  not  even  a 
"  village  store  ";  the  cottages  are  tucked  away 
in  little  crannies  of  the  uneven  ground;   there 

242 


Angel  Inn 

is  no  railway  within  several  miles;  a  cheerful 
parsonage  and  a  comfortable  manor-house 
are  the  only  dwellings  except  a  few  small 
cottages.  When  Polly  and  I  left  the  Malster, 
and  climbed  the  road  to  the  church,  we  found 
the  Matron  embracing  two  very  beautiful 
white  Borzoi  hounds,  while  a  cheeky  little 
black  Scotch  terrier  looked  on  and  barked  in 
disgust.  The  Invalid  was  not  visible,  and, 
as  soon  as  the  Matron  could  get  her  head  away 
from  the  dogs,  she  told  us  that  the  vicar  had 
met  them  and  he  was  now  inside  the  church, 
showing  the  Invalid  the  noted  painted  screen 
she  had  so  wished  to  see.  The  Matron  frankly 
''  preferred  playing  with  his  fine  dogs  to  seeing 
any  ancient  screen,  no  matter  how  lovely." 

''  Remember  we  can  only  have  ten  min- 
utes here,"  said  methodical  Polly,  and  we  left 
our  companion  romping  with  the  graceful 
hounds.  My  heart  was  divided  between  the 
screen  and  the  dogs,  so  I  took  the  screen  first. 
Those  who  like  antiquities  are  prepared  to 
rave  about  everything,  whether  it  be  really 
worth  their  enthusiasm  or  not,  but  even  the 
greatest  of  Philistines,  and  T  am  of  their  num- 
ber, could  see  the  beauty  of  this  old  church  and 
its  painted  reredos.  T  rushed  out  as  soon  as 
I  had  looked  at  it,  and  forced  the  Matron  to 

243 


Among  English  Inns 

come  back  with  me,  if  only  to  admire  for  a 
moment  the  elaborate  flower-work  and  the 
splendid  colours  in  the  dresses  of  the  saints. 
There  proved  to  be  other  interesting  things  in 
Ranworth  Church.  A  fine  old  font  and  a 
curious  lectern  are,  with  its  screen,  among  its 
prized  possessions.  Our  skipper  told  us  that 
it  is  the  church  best  worth  visiting  on  the 
Broads. 

"  I  must  return  some  day  and  see  your  dogs," 
cried  the  Matron,  when  she  hears  they  have  a 
kennel  full  of  puppies. 

"  And  I  want  really  to  live  a  summer  in 
this  country,  through  which  we  only  have 
flown  to-day,"  added  the  Invalid. 

The  wind  still  held  good,  so  we  sailed  down 
the  river  past  St.  Benet's  Abbey.  A  queer 
ruin  this;  it  looks  like  a  giant  hop-kiln.  The 
remains  to  be  seen  from  the  water  of  this  once 
very  rich  and  powerful  monastery  are  meagre, 
though  at  nearer  range  some  of  its  tall  arched 
doorways  appear,  and  the  hues  on  the  marshy 
meadows  about  the  ruins  make  a  poetic  pic- 
ture of  the  few  stone  walls  still  left  standing. 

We  had  not  the  time  to  enter  South  Wal- 
sham  Broad,  about  which  there  is  great  excite- 
ment in  the  neighbourhood,  for  fear  the  squire 


244 


Angel  Inn 

will  fulfil  his  threat  and  close  its  waters  to  the 
public. 

"  South  Walsham,"  said  our  skipper,  "  is  a 
charming  village,  and  the  Broad  small  but 
lovely."  We  had  no  time  to  linger,  but  flew 
with  well-filled  sail  past  the  windmill  at  its 
mouth,  where  another  small  river  joins  the 
Bure.  Our  course  was  straight  away  for 
Acle  Bridge.  The  stream  runs  rapidly  be- 
tween banks,  protected  from  the  encroach- 
ment of  the  water  by  bulkheads.  The  mead- 
ows, on  which  great  herds  of  cattle  and  horses 
were  feeding,  were  bright  with  the  scarlet 
flame  of  the  poppies,  and  soon  the  three-arched 
Acle  Bridge  was  before  us,  and  many  wind- 
mills twirled  their  white  arms  over  the  flat 
land.  Down  went  our  mast,  as  we  slid  under 
the  middle  arch  of  the  bridge,  and  we  tied  up 
for  tea  at  the  Angel. 

"  The  skipper  says  we  need  not  hurry;  we 
have  but  twelve  miles  still  before  us.  With  a 
good  wind  we  should  be  in  Yarmouth  before 
eight,  even  if  we  while  away  an  hour  before 
leaving  here.  Let  us  order  tea,  and  then  go  to 
the  village,"  suggested  our  Matron. 

Acle  proved  to  be  half  a  mile  from  the  Inn. 
The  village  consisted  of  a  group  of  houses 
without  visible  gardens,  built  on  three  sides 

245 


Among  English  Inns 

of  a  village  green  minus  any  green  thing,  ex- 
cepting one  great  tree.  But  we  shall  always 
have  tender  remembrance  of  it  for  the  sake 
of  the  larks  who  sang  us  enchanting  trills  and 
roulades  as  we  took  our  way  back  to  the  Angel. 
The  sun  was  getting  low,  the  evening  light  was 
golden,  and  the  songsters  were  rising  for  their 
last  flight,  their  voices  loud  and  clear  when 
their  tiny  forms  had  become  mere  specks  in 
the  glowing  sky.  As  we  started  off  again  down 
the  river,  the  air  was  full  of  their  music.  This 
part  of  the  Bure  is  a  land  for  painters ;  a  great, 
flat  sweep  of  country,  with  here  and  there  a 
group  of  trees  about  a  red  farmhouse,  or  a 
beckoning  windmill.  The  sails  of  many  boats, 
black,  white,  or  coloured  by  the  weather,  ap- 
parently skim  over  the  distant  meadow;  now 
and  again  a  little  red-brick  village  nestles 
down  near  to  the  water's  edge,  and  every  high 
point  of  land  is  crowned  by  a  noble  square 
flint  church  tower.  Even  the  moon  was  kind 
to  us,  and  came  up,  peeping  out  among  pink 
clouds,  to  make  our  way  more  beautiful. 

"  You  should  take  a  month  to  see  the  Broads 
and  a  year  to  see  Norfolk,"  was  the  skipper's 
oft-repeated  advice.  We  agreed  humbly.  We 
had  passed  villages  we  longed  to  explore,  and 
Broads  of  which  we  could  not  even  get  a 

246 


Angel  Inn 

glimpse.  The  flint  churches,  with  their 
thatched  roofs,  all  out  of  proportion  to  the 
size  of  the  congregations  who  support  them, 
are  sprinkled  thick  over  the  landscape,  and  the 
skipper  told  the  Invalid  such  tales  of  the  treas- 
ures in  brass  and  carving  they  contain  that  she 
heaved  mighty  sighs  of  longing.  We  made 
a  record  sail;  we  skimmed  down  Wroxham 
Broad  and  peeped  into  Ranworth,  but  we 
passed  by  five  other  little  lakes.  We  heard 
tales  of  three  others  into  which  our  large  boat 
could  not  sail,  but  which  are  well  worth  visit- 
ing. A  summer  land  flitted  past  our  eyes,  and 
we  hated  to  leave  it.  Along  the  banks  and 
in  small  boats  out  in  the  stream  we  saw  pa- 
tient anglers,  and  one  queer  little  covered 
boat,  moored  in  the  reeds,  was  pointed  out 
as  the  abode  of  a  professional  eel-catcher.  It 
was  a  diminutive  house-boat  of  exceedingly 
rude  description.  Polly  and  the  Invalid  plied 
the  skipper  with  practical  questions. 

For  a  party  of  four  or  five,  the  expense  of 
two  weeks  on  the  Broads  would  not  exceed 
three  dollars  apiece  per  day,  taken  in  the  most 
extravagant  fashion.  For  the  artist  there  is 
sketching,  for  the  sportsman  fishing  and  sport- 
ing, and  for  every  one  a  lazy,  happy  life  sur- 
rounded by  unwonted  beauty  of  scene. 

247 


Airiong  English  Inns 

"  To  be  sure,  there  be  the  Rogers  some- 
times," said  the  skipper,  who  is  listening  at- 
tentively to  our  ravings. 

"The  Rogers!  Who  are  they?"  asked 
Polly,  looking  around,  as  if  she  expected  to 
see  an  army  of  tramps  or  worse  bearing  down 
upon  us  from  the  shore. 

"The  Rogers?  Oh,  they  are  a  sort  of 
squall,"  he  explained,  and  Polly  was  so  re- 
lieved that  she  forgot  to  ask  why  they  bear 
that  name,  and  left  the  skipper  to  continue 
his  tales  of  the  good  skating  and  ice-boating 
to  be  had  upon  the  Bure  and  the  Broads  in 
fine  winter  weather. 

As  we  neared  Yarmouth,  the  changing  sky 
and  the  moonlight  made  lovely  the  banks 
which  in  brighter  light  might  look  dull  and 
squalid,  and,  when  the  dark  outlines  of  the 
town  houses  appeared  on  the  horizon,  we  had 
a  scene  to  thrown  an  artist  into  a  state  of  ec- 
stasy. From  our  boat  at  the  stone  quay,  we 
had  but  a  short  walk,  amid  the  old  buildings, 
to  the  station,  where  a  train  returning  to  Nor- 
wich was  just  about  to  depart. 

The  day  had  been  so  crowded  with  experi- 
ence that  it  seemed  a  week  long. 

"  We  at  least  know  where  to  go  when,  next 


248 


Angel  Inn 

year,  we  come  back  to  Norfolk,"  philosophizes 
Polly. 

"  I  shall  sail  the  Broads,"  said  the  Invalid, 
gazing  back  at  the  great  wherry  with  a  sigh. 

Early  next  morning  we  left  our  comfortable 
lodgings  at  the  Maid's  Head.  Again  we  saw 
Wymondham  and  Thetford  in  the  distance 
as  the  train  flew  past,  and,  with  a  glimpse  of 
Ely  and  Cambridge  on  our  way,  we  pulled  up 
at  last  in  London  again  at  St.  Pancras.  We 
had  left  many  things  undone.  We  had  not 
seen  half  Norfolk,  but  we  had  discovered  that 
it  is  a  county  full  of  diversified  charm,  and 
with  greater  variety  than  any  part  of  England 
into  which  our  tour  had  led  us.  The  Maid's 
Head  was  not  cheap,  perhaps,  but  it  was  good, 
for  all  the  inns  which  glory  in  the  modern 
title  of  hotel  cost  at  the  very  least  three  or 
four  dollars  a  day.  Norfolk  is  rich  in  charm- 
ing little  wayside  inns,  picturesque  and  tidy, 
but,  as  we  found  elsewhere,  they  had  no  beds 
to  ofifer  the  traveller;  plenty  to  drink,  but 
little  to  eat.  The  majority  of  the  smaller  and 
older  inns  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the 
brewers,  alas!  who  care  more  for  the  sale  of 
their  beer  than  for  the  preservation  of  the 
picturesque  and  ancient  hospitality. 

Our  tour  was  over  with  our  farewell  to 
249 


Among  English  Inns 

Norfolk  and  our  sail  on  the  Broads;  and  the 
whole  party  have  fallen  so  deeply  in  love  with 
the  little  country  full  of  green  fields  and  sing- 
ing birds,  bright  flowers,  pleasant  hostelries, 
and  civil,  simple  people,  that  they  look  for- 
ward with  longing  to  future  expeditions  in 
other  counties  of  Merrie  England. 


THE  END. 


250 


INDEX 


Abbey,   The,  Tewkesbury,    124- 

126,  129. 
Acle  Bridge,  245,  246. 
Acle    Bridge,    The    Angel     Inn, 

245- 
Alton,  5,  6,  10,  13,  21,  25. 
Angel    Inn,    The,    Acle    Bridge, 

245. 
Arlesford,  26. 
Aschurch,  122,  123. 
Avon,  River,  81,  95-97,  loi. 
Aylsham,  218,  222. 
Aylsham,    Blickling     Hall,     218- 

221. 
Aylsham,  Buckinghamshire  Arms, 

220,  221. 

Bath,  87. 

Battlefield,     The,      Tewkesbury, 

126-127. 
Beaufort,  Cardinal,  28. 
Beeley  Moor,  142. 
Bell  Inn,  The,  Tewkesbury,   123, 

124,  127. 
Bell    Inn,    The,    Thetford,    233, 

234- 
Bell  Tower,  The,  Evesham,  89, 

90,  92-94. 
Belper,  132. 

Belvoir  Castle,  140,  194. 
Bidetord,  65-68,  82-84. 
Bideford,  The  Royal  Hotel,  83. 
Blickling    Hall,    Aylsham,    218- 

221. 
Bolsover,  163-168. 
Bolsover  Castle,  164,  166. 
Bolsover,  The  Devonshire  Arms, 

166,  167. 
Bolsover,  The  Swan  Inn,  166. 

251 


Borrow,' George,  215,  216. 

Boston,  185,  190,  193,  196-208. 

Boston,  St.  Botolph's  Church, 
196,  202,  203. 

Boston,  The  Maud  Foster  Drain, 
203,  204. 

Boston,  The  Peacock  and  Royal, 
197-200. 

Boston,  The  Red  Lion  Inn,  204, 
205. 

Breden  Hill,  99,  loi,  104,  105. 

Broadway,  106-109. 

Broadway,  Stanton,  108. 

Broadway,  Stanway  Hall,  108. 

Broadway,  The  Lygon  Arms, 
107. 

Broadway,  Toddington,  loS. 

Buckinghamshire  Arms,  Ayl- 
sham, 220,  221. 

BuUen,  Anne,  219,  220. 

Byron,  Lord,  186-190. 

Cathedral,  The,  Norwich,  215. 
Cathedral,  The,  Winchester,  28- 

3°- 
Cavendish,  Sir  Charles,  164. 
Chagford,  Devon,  32,  33,  36-48, 

54'  55-  58- 

Chagford,  Fingle  Bridge,  54,  55. 

Chagford,  St.  Michael's  Church, 
47,  48. 

Chagford,  The  "  Three  Crowns," 
32,  37-40. 

Chatsworth,  141-148,  154. 

Chawton,  7,  10,  15. 

Cheltenham,  87,  88. 

Chesterfield,  150,  151. 

Church  of  St.  Peter's,  The,  Nor- 
wich, 217. 


Index 


Clerk's  Hill  Farm,  Evesham,  82, 

91,  96-98,  110-112. 
Clovelly,  66-83. 

Clovelly,  Gallantry  Bower,  75,  76. 
Clovelly,  Hartland  Bay,  68. 
Clovelly,  Lundy's  Island,  81. 
Clovelly,  The  Hobby  Drive,  75, 

81. 
Clovelly,   The    New  Inn,  69-72, 

76-78. 
Clumber  House,  176-178. 
Cotswold  Hills,  81,  88,  97,  99. 
Cranmere  Pool,  53-54. 
Cromwell,  Oliver,  107. 
Cropthorne,  98-101. 
Crown  Inn,  The,    Evesham,   82, 

88-91. 

Dartmoor,  41-45,  4S-54,  62. 
Dartmoor,    Cranmere    Pool,    53, 

54- 
Dartmoor,  Grimspound,  49,  50. 
Dartmoor,  Kes  Tor,  36,  43-45- 
Dartmoor,  Nattadown  Common, 

48. 
Dartmoor,  Yes  Tor,  61,  62. 
De  Montfort,  Simon,  103,  109. 
Derby,  131. 

Derwent  River,  133,  136,  141,  145. 
Devonshire  Arms,  The,  Bolsover, 

166,  167. 
Duffield,  132. 
Dukeries  Inn,  The,  Edwinstowe, 

169,  170,  174,  175. 

Edensor,  146,  147. 
Edwinstowe,  165,  168-17 1. 
Edwinstowe,  The  Dukeries  Inn, 

169,  170,  174,  175. 
Eliot,  George,  132. 
Elmley  Castle,  103-105. 
Evesham,  82,  84,  88-122. 
Evesham,  Bell  Tower,  89,  90,  92- 

94. 
Evesham,  Clerk's  Hill  Farm,  82, 

91,  96-98,  110-112. 
Evesham,  Northwick  Arms,  115. 
Evesham,    The    Crown    Inn,  82, 

88-91. 

1 


Evesham,  Victoria  Theatre,  113- 

121. 
Exeter,  35,  63,  85. 
Exeter  Cathedral,  65. 
Exmoor,  36. 

Fen  Country,  The,  194-196,  208, 

209. 
Fingle  Bridge,  Chagford,  54,  55. 
Fladbury,  96,  101-103. 
Fletcher,  Private,  Tomb  of,  30. 

Gallantry    Bower,     Clovelly,    75, 

76. 
George  Inn,  The,  Winchester,  27. 
Godolphin,  Sir  Sydney,  38. 
Great  Malvern,  88,  99,  129. 
Great     South     Western    Hotel, 

Southampton,  3,  4. 
Green  Dragon  Inn,  The, W^ymond- 

ham,  227,  22S,  232. 
Green  Hill,  103. 
Grimspound,  49,  50. 

Haddon  Hall,  136-141. 

"  Hanger,"  The,  Selborne,  7,  13, 

14. 
Hardwick  Hall,  142,  149-162. 
Hardwick  Inn,  150,  163. 
Hartland  Bay,  Clovelly,  68. 
Hobbes,  Thomas,  i6i. 
Hobby  Drive,  Clovelly,  75,  81. 
Horning  Ferry,  241. 

Inns. 

Clerk's  Hill    Farm,  Evesham, 

82,  91,  96-98,  110-112. 
Hardwick  Inn,  Hardwick,  15c, 

163. 
The  Angel  Inn,   Acle  Bridge, 

245- 
The  Bell  Inn,  Tewkesbury,  123, 

124,  127. 
The  Bell    Inn,  Thetford,   233, 

234- 
The    Buckinghamshire    Arms, 

Aylsham,  220,  221. 
The  Crown  Inn,  Evesham,  82, 

88-91. 

52 


Index 


The  Devonshire  Arms,  Bol- 
sover,  i66,  167. 

The  Dukeries  Inn,  Edwin- 
stowe,  169,  170,  174,  175. 

The  George  Inn,  Winchester, 
27. 

The  Great  South  Western 
Hote],  Southampton,  3,  4. 

The  Green  Dragon  Inn,  Wy- 
mondham,  227,  228,  232. 

The  Lygon  Arms,  Broadway, 
107. 

The  Maid's  Head,  Norwich, 
210-213,  236-239,  249. 

The  Malster  Inn,  Ranworth, 
242. 

The  New  Inn,  Clovelly,  69-72, 
76-78. 

The  Northwick  Arms,  Eve- 
sham, 115. 

The  Peacock  and  Royal,  Bos- 
ton, 197-200,  204,  205. 

The    Peacock    Inn,    Rowsley, 

131.  133-135.  142. 
The  Queen's  Arms,   Selborne, 

6,  8-10,  18-20,  24-26. 
The   Red   Lion    Inn,    Boston, 

204,  205. 
The  Royal  Hotel,  Bideford,  83. 
The  Star  Inn,  Yarmouth,  223, 

224. 
The  Swan  Inn,  Bolsover,  166. 
The  Three  Crowns  Inn,  Chag- 

ford,  32,  37-40. 
The    White    Hart    Inn,    Oke- 

hampton,  59. 
Itchen  Abbas,  26. 
Itchen  River,  26. 

"John  Halifax,  Gentleman,"  122, 
125-127. 

Kes  Tor,  36,  43-45. 

King's     House,    The,    Thetford, 

233-235- 
Kingsley,  Charles,  67,  71-73,  83. 

Leicester,  Earl  of,  232. 
Leigh  Bridge,  45,  46. 


Lundy's  Island,  Clovelly,  8r. 
Lygon    Arms,     The,    Broadway, 

107. 
Lythe,  The,  9,  23,  24. 

Maid's  Head,  The,  Norwich,  210- 

213,  236-239,  249. 
Malster     Inn,     The,    Ranworth, 

242. 
Manners,  Sir  John,  139. 
Mansfield,  185,  191,  192. 
Mary,    Queen    of   Scotland,   142, 

147,  148. 
Matlock,  133. 
Maud  Foster  Drain,  The,  Boston, 

203,  204. 
Moreton  Hampstead,  62,  63. 
Mulock,     Miss,     122,    123,    125, 

127. 

Nattadown  Common,  48. 

New  Inn,   The,   Clovelly,  69-72, 

76-78. 
Newstead  Abbey,  185-190. 
Newton  Abbot,  63,  64. 
Newton  Valance,  14,  15. 
Norfolk  Broads,  The,  236-250. 
Northwick  Arms,  The,  Evesham, 

115- 
Norwich,  210-217,  224,  239. 
Norwich,  The  Cathedral,  215. 
Norwich,    The    Church    of     St. 

Peter's,  217. 
Norwich,    The    "  Maid's    Head," 

210-213,  236,  239,  249. 
Nottingham,  193,  194. 

Okehampton,  53,  55,  56-61,  63. 
Okehauipton,   The    White    Hart 
Inn,  59. 

Peacock  Inn,  The,  Rowsley,  131, 

133-135,  142. 
Peacock  and  Royal,  The,  Boston, 

197-200,  204,  205. 
Phillpotts,  Eden,  42,  50. 
Priory,  The,  Selborne,  23,  24. 
Priory,  The,  Wymondham,   229- 
I       232. 


Index 


Queen's  Arms,  The,  Selborne,  6, 

8-IO,  18-20,  24-26. 
Queen    Elizabeth,    152,    155-157. 

211,  220. 

Ranworth,  241-244,  247. 
Ranworth,  Malster  Inn,  242. 
Red  Lion  Inn,  The,  Boston,  204, 

205. 
Robsart,  Amy,  232. 
Rowsley,  131,  133-136,  141,  142, 

148. 
Rowsley,  The  Peacock  Inn,  131, 

133-135'  142- 
Royal  Hotel,  The,  Bideford,  83. 
Rufford  Abbey,  175. 

St.    Botolph's    Church,    Boston, 

196,  202,  203. 
St.  Michael's  Church,  Chagford, 

47.  48. 
Sahsbury  Cathedral,  35. 
Salisbury  Plain,  35. 
Selborne,  i,  5,  6-25. 
Selborne,  Queen's  Arms,  i,  6,  8- 

10,  18-20,  24-26. 
Selborne,  The  "  Hanger,"  7,  13, 

14. 
Selborne,  The  Priory,  23,  24. 
Selborne,  The  Wakes,  11-13,  16, 

20,  21. 
Selborne,  Wollmer  Forest,  24. 
Sherwood    Forest,   168,   170-178, 

184. 
Shrewsbury,  Countess  of  ("  Bess 

of  Hardwick "),  142,    146-147, 

154,  1 56-161,  163,  164. 
Shrewsbury,  Earl  of,  146,  147. 
Southampton,  i,  3. 
Southampton,  (ireat  South  West- 
ern Hotel,  3,  4. 
South  Walsham,  244,  245. 
Stanfield  Hall,  Wymondham,  231, 

232. 
Stanton,  Broadway,  108. 
Stanway  Hall,  Broadway,  108. 
Star    Inn,    The,   Yarmouth,    223, 

224. 


Stuart,  Arabella,  156-160. 
Swan  Inn,  The,  Bolsover,  166. 

Templecombe,  85,  86. 
Tewkesbury,  122-130,  131. 
Tewkesbury,      Battlefield,      126, 

127. 
Tewkesbury,    The    Abbey,    124, 

126,  129. 
Tewkesbury,  The  Bell  Inn,  123, 

124,  127. 
Thetford,  225,  232,  235,  249. 
Thetford,    The    Bell    Inn,    233, 

234- 
Thetford,    The    King's     House, 

233-235- 
Thoresby  Park,  173-176. 

Thorpe,  237,  240. 
Three  Crowns  Inn,   The,  Chag- 
ford, 32,  37-40. 
Toddington,  Broadway,  loS. 

Vernon,  Dorothy,  139,  140. 
Victoria  Theatre,  The,  Evesham, 
113-121. 

Wakes,  The,  Selborne,  11-13,  16, 

20,  21. 
Washington,   Penelope,  105,  106. 
Welbeck  Abbey,  163,  178-183. 
White,    Gilbert,     5,     10-12,     13, 

23- 
White  Hart  Inn,  The,  Okehamp- 

ton,  59. 
Whyddon,  Sir  John,  38,  40. 
Wickhampton,  105,  106. 
Winchester,  23,  25-3X. 
Winchester,  Bishop  of,  23. 
Winchester  Cathedral,  28-30. 
Winchester  College,  31. 
Winchester,  The  "George"  Inn, 

27. 
Wollmer  Forest,  Selborne,  24. 
Worksop,  163,  183,  184. 
Wroxham,  238,  240,  241,  247. 
Wye  River,  135,  141. 
Wymondham,  225-232,  249. 
Wymondham,  Stanfield  Hall,  231, 

232. 

54 


Index 


Wymondham,  The  "  Green  Drag- 
on "  Inn,  227,  228,  232. 

Wymondham,  The  Pnory,  229- 
232. 

Wytham  River,  197. 


Yarmouth,    222-224,     238,    245, 

248. 
Yarmouth,  "  The  Star  "  Inn,  223, 

224. 
Yeoford,  2,t„  35,  39,  63. 
Yes  lor,  01,  62. 


255 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 

STACK  COLLECTION 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


■5,'0.:(F4458sl)  JTen 


,ir. 


